THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 


MESSRS.  ROBERTS  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


JEAN    INGE  LOW. 

OFF    THE    SKELLIGS. 

A    NOVEL 
By  Jean  Ingelow.     i6mo.    670  pages.    Price  $1.75. 


From  the  Literary  World. 

*'  The  first  novel  from  the  pen  of  one  of  the  most  popular 
poets  of  the  age  —  written,  too,  in  the  author's  maturity, 
when  her  name  is  almost  exclusively  associated  with  verse, 
so  far  as  literature  is  concerned,  and  therefore  to  be  regarded 
as  a  deliberate  work,  and  one  in  which  she  challenges  the 
decisive  judgment  of  the  public  —  will  be  read  with  universal 
and  eager  interest.  .  .  .  We  have  read  this  book  with  con- 
stantly increasing  pleasure.  It  is  a  novel  with  a  soul  in  it, 
that  imparts  to  the  reader  an  influence  superior  to  mere 
momentary  entertainment;  it  is  not  didactic,  but  it  teaches ; 
it  is  genuine,  fresh,  healthy,  presents  cheerful  views  of  life, 
and  exalts  nobility  of  character  without  seeming  to  do  so." 

Extract  from  a  private  letter,  —  not  intended  for  publica- ' 
tion,  —  the  hearty  opinion  of  one  of  the  most  popular  and 
favorite  writers  of  the  present  day :  — 

"  Thanhs  for  the  book.  I  sat  up  nearly  all  night  to  read  it,  and  think 
it  very  charming.  .  .  .  J  hope  she  will  soon  write  again;  for  we  need 
just  such  simple, pure,  and  cheerful  stories  here  in  America,  where  even 
the  nursery  songs  are  sensational,  and  the  beautiful  old  books  we  used  to 
love  are  now  called  dull  and  slow.  J  shall  sing  its  praises  loud  and  long, 
and  set  all  my  boys  and  girls  to  reading  '  Off  the  Skelligs,'  sure  that  they 
will  learn  to  love  it  as  well  as  they  do  her  charming  Songs.  If  I  could 
reach  so  far,  I  should  love  to  shake  hands  with  Misa  Ingelow,  and  thank 
her  heartily  for  this  delightful  book." 


Seld  everywhere.    Mailed,  postpaid,  by  the  Publishers, 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Boston. 


^^      nXf     TrCTT.   "^ 


OP  THK 


[UFlVEESITrl 


THE 


VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 


An  Autobiographical  Story. 


BY 


GEORGE   MAC  DONALD. 


BEING   A   SEQUEL   TO    "ANNALS   OF   A   QUIET   NEIGHBORHOOD,' 
AND    "the   SEABOARD   PARISH." 


^X^^   OF  THR 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 

1873- 


J^<]faTrf 


GEORGe    MACDONALD 


CONTENTS. 


FAOB. 

CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODCCTORT 1 

CHAPTER  n. 
I  Trt 9 

CELAPTER  HI, 
Mr  "Weddinq 19 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Judy's  Visit 28 

CHAPTER  V. 
Good  Society 34 

CHAPTER  VI. 
A  Refuge  from  the  Heat 39 

CHAPTER  VH. 
Connie .     45 

CHAPTER  Vm. 
Connie's  Baby 60 

CHAPTER  EX. 
The  Foundling  Refound 57 

CHAPTER  X. 
■Wagtail  comes  to  Honor 64 

CHAPTER  XI. 
A  Stupid  Chapter 70 

CHAPTER  XH. 
An  Introduction 76 

CHAPTER  Xni. 
My  First  Dinner  Party.  — A  Negatived  ProposaIi     ...     81 

CHAPTER  XTV. 
A  Picture 96 


ir  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   XV. 
Rumors «...   102 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
A  Discovert 112 

CHAPTER   XVn. 
Miss  Clare 121 

CHAPTER  XVm. 
Miss  Clare's  Home 126 

CHAPTER   XIX. 
Her  Story 132 

CHAPTER  XX. 
A  Remarkable  Fact 154 

CHAPTER   XXI. 
Ladt  Bernard 161 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
Mt  Second  Dinner  Party 166 

CHAPTER  XXin. 
The  End  of  the  Evening 183 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 
My  First  Terror 190 

CHAPTER   XXV. 
Its  Sequel 203 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
Troubles 220 

CHAPTER   XXVn. 
Miss  Clare  amongst  her  Friends 229 

CHAPTER   XXVni. 
Mr.  Morlet 237 

CHAPTER   XXIX. 
A.  Strange  Text 250 

CHAPTER   XXX. 
About  Servants 275 

CHAPTER   SXXI. 
About  Pekcivale      ■ 281 

CHAPTER   XXXII. 
My  Second  Terror 287 

CHAPTER   XXXm. 
The  Clouds  after  the  Rain         ...•••!•    293 


CONTENTS.  V 

CHAPTER   XXXTV. 
The  Sunshine 803 

CHAPTER   XXXV. 
What  Ladt  Bernakd  thocght  op  it 309 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
Retrospective 813 

CHAPTER   XXXVn. 
Mks.  Cromwell  Comes 817 

CHAPTER   XXXVm. 
Mrs.  Cromwell  Goes 837 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
Ancestral  Wisdom 350 

CHAPTER  XL. 
Child  Nonsense 357 

CHAPTER   XLI. 
"Double,  Docble,  Toil  and  Trouble" 366 

CHAPTER   XLH. 
Roger  and  Marion 874 

CHAPTER   XLHI. 
A  Little  more  about  Roger,  and  about  Mr.  Blackbtone        .    381 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 
The  Dea  Ex .       .       .    88& 


THE   VICAR'S    DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER    I. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

I  THINK  that  is  the  way  my  father  would  begin.  My 
name  is  Ethelwyn  Percivale,  and  used  to  be  Ethelwyn 
Walton.  I  always  put  the  Walton  in  between  when  I 
write  to  my  father ;  for  I  think  it  is  quite  enough  to 
have  to  leave  father  and  mother  behind  for  a  husband, 
without  leaving  their  name  behind  you  also.  I  am  fond 
of  lumber-rooms,  and  in  some  houses  consider  them  far 
the  most  interesting  spots  ;  but  I  don't  choose  that  my 
old  name  should  lie  about  in  the  one  at  home. 

I  am  much  afraid  of  writing  nonsense ;  but  my  father 
tells  me  that  to  see  things  in  print  is  a  great  help  to 
recognizing  whether  they  are  nonsense  or  not.  And  he 
tells  me,  too,  that  his  friend  the  publisher,  who,  —  but  I 
will  speak  of  him  presently, — his  friend  the  publisher 
is  not  like  any  other  publisher  he  ever  met  with  before ; 
for  he  never  grumbles  at  any  alterations  writers  choose 
to  make, —  at  least  he  never  says  any  thing,  although  it 
costs  a  great  deal  to  shift  the  types  again  after  they  are 
once  set  up.  The  other  part  of  my  excuse  for  attempt- 
ing to  write  lies  simply  in  telling  how  it  came  about. 

Ten  days  ago,  my  father  came  up  from  Marsh  mallows 
to  pay  us  a  visit.  He  is  with  us  now,  but  we  don't  see 
much  of  him  all  day  ;  for  he  is  generally  out  with  a  friend 
of  his  in  the  east  end,  the  parson  of  one  of  the  poorest 
parishes  in  London,  —  who  thanks  God  that  he  wasn't 
the  nephew  of  any  bishop  to  be  put  into  a  good  living, 


2  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

for  lie  learns  more  about  the  ways  of  God  from  having  to 
do  with  plain,  yes,  vulgar  human  nature,  than  tlie  tliick- 
ness  of  the  varnish  would  ever  have  permitted  him  to 
discover  in  what  are  called  the  higher  orders  of  society. 
Yet  I  must  say,  that,  amongst  those  I  have  recognized 
as  nearest  the  sacred  communism  of  the  early  church 
—  a  phrase  of  my  father's  —  are  two  or  three  people  of 
rank  and  wealth,  whose  names  are  written  in  heaven,  and 
need  not  be  set  down  in  my  poor  story. 

A  few  days  ago,  then,  my  father,  coming  homo  to 
dinner,  brought  with  him  the  publisher  of  the  two  books 
called,  "  The  Annals  of  a  Quiet  Neighborhood,"  and  "  The 
Seaboard  Parish."  The  first  of  these  had  lain  by  him  for 
some  years  before  my  father  could  publish  it;  and  then 
he  remodelled  it  a  little  for  the  magazine  in  which  it 
came  out,  a  portion  at  a  time.  The  second  was  written 
at  the  request  of  Mr,  S.,  who  wanted  something  more 
of  the  same  sort ;  and  now,  after  some  years,  he  had  be- 
gun again  to  represent  to  my  father,  at  intervals,  the 
^lecessity  for  another  story  to  complete  the  trilogy,  as  he 
called  it :  insisting,  when  my  father  objected  the  difficul- 
ties of  growing  years  and  failing  judgment,  that  indeed  he 
owed  it  to  him ;  for  he  had  left  him  in  the  lurch,  as  it 
were,  with  an  incomplete  story,  not  to  say  an  uncom- 
pleted series.  My  father  still  objected,  and  Mr.  S.  still 
urged,  until,  at  length,  my  father  said  —  this  I  learned 
afterwards,  of  course  —  "  What  would  you  say  if  I  found 
3^ou  a  substitute  ?  "  '•  That  depends  on  who  the  substi- 
tute might  be,  Mr.  Walton,"  said  Mr.  S.  The  result  of 
their  talk  was  that  my  father  brought  him  home  to  din- 
ner that  day;  and  hence  it  comes,  that,  with  some  real 
fear  and  much  metaphorical  trembling,  I  am  now  writ- 
ing this.  I  wonder  if  anybody  will  ever  read  it.  This 
my  first  chapter  shall  be  composed  of  a  little  of  the  talk 
that  passed  at  our  dinner-table  that  day.  Mr.  Black- 
stone  was  the  only  other  stranger  present;  and  he  cer- 
■(ainly  was  not  much  of  a  stranger. 

"  Do  you  keep  a  diarj?^,  Mrs.  Percivale  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
S.,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  if  he  expected  an  indig- 
nant repudiation. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  3 

"  I  would  rather  keep  a  rag  and  bottle  shop,"  I  an- 
swered :  at  which  Mr.  Blackstone  burst  into  one  of  his 
splendid  roars  of  laughter  ;  for  if  ever  a  man  could  laugh 
like  a  Christian  who  believed  the  world  was  in  a  fair  waj 
after  all,  that  man  was  Mr.  Blackstone ;  and  even  ni}'- 
husband,  who  seldom  laughs  at  any  thing  I  say  with 
more  than  his  eyes,  was  infected  bj'  it,  and  laughed 
heartily. 

"  That's  rather  a  strong  assertion,  my  love,"  said  my 
father.     "Pray,  what  do  you  mean  by  it?" 

"  I  mean,  papa,"  I  answered,  "  that  it  would  be  a  more 
profitable  emplo^'ment  to  keep  the  one  than  tlie  other." 

"  I  suppose  you  think,"  said  jNIr.  Blackstone,  "  that 
the  lady  who  keeps  a  diary  is  in  the  same  danger  as  the 
old  woman  who  prided  herself  in  keeping  a  strict  jv> 
count  of  her  personal  expenses.  And  it  always  was  cor- 
rect; for  when  she  could  not  get  it  to  balance  at  the  end 
of  the  week,  she  brought  it  right  by  putting  down  the 
deficit  as  charitt/." 

''That's  just  what  I  mean,"  I  said. 

"  But,"  resumed  Mr.  S.,  "T  did  not  mean  a  diary  of 
3'our  feelings,  but  of  the  events  of  the  day  and  hour." 

'•  Which  are  never  in  themselves  wortli  putting  down," 
I  said.  "  All  that  is  worth  remembering  will  find  for 
itself  some  convenient  cranny  to  go  to  sleep  in  till  it  is 
wanted,  without  being  made  a  poef '  mummy  of  in  a 
diary." 

"  If  you  have  such  a  memory,  I  grant  that  is  better, 
even  for  my  purpose,  much  better,"  said  Mr.  S. 

"  For  your  purpose  !  "  I  repeated,  in  surprise.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon  ;  but  what  designs  can  you  have  upon 
my  memory  ?  " 

"  Well,  1  suppose  I  had  better  be  as  straightforward 
as  I  know  j'ou  would  like  me  to  be,  Mrs.  Percivale.  I 
want  you  to  make  up  the  sum  your  father  owes  me.  He 
owed  me  three  books  ;  he  has  paid  me  two.  I  want  the 
third  from  you." 

I  laughed ;  for  the  very  notion  of  writing  a  book 
Bcemed  preposterous. 

"I  want  you,  under  feigned  names  of   course,"  he 


4  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

went  on,  "  as  are  all  the  names  in  your  father's  two 
books,  to  give  me  the  furtlier  history  of  the  familj^,  and 
in  particular  your  own  experiences  in  London.  I  am 
confident  the  history  of  your  married  life  must  contain 
a  number  of  incidents  which,  without  the  least  danger 
of  indiscretion,  might  be  communicated  to  the  public  to 
the  great  advantage  of  all  who  read  them." 

"You  forget,"  I  said,  hardly  believing  him  to  be  in 
earnest,  "  that  I  should  be  exposing  my  story  to  you  and 
Mr.  Blackstone  at  least.  If  I  were  to  make  the  absurd 
attempt,  —  I  mean  absurd  as  regards  my  ability,  —  I 
should  be  always  thinking  of  you  two  as  my  public,  and 
whether  it  would  be  right  for  me  to  say  this  and  say 
that ;  which  you  may  see  at  once  would  render  it  impos- 
sible for  me  to  write  at  all."  ^ 

"  I  think  I  can  suggest  a  way  out  of  that  difficulty, 
Wj^nnie,"  said  my  father.  "  You  must  write  freely,  all 
you  feel  inclined  to  write,  and  then  let  your  husband  see 
it.     You  may  be  content  to  let  all  pass  that  he  passes." 

"You  don't  say  you  really  mean  it,  papa  !  The  thing 
is  perfectly  impossible.  I  never  wrote  a  book  in  my  life, 
and  "  — 

"  No  more  did  I,  my  dear,  before  I  began  my  first." 

"  But  you  grew  up  to  it  by  degrees,  papa  !  " 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  will  make  it  the  easier  for  you, 
when  you  try.  I  am  so  far,  at  least,  a  Darwinian  as  to 
believe  that." 

"But,  really,  Mr.  S.  ought  to  have  more  sense  —  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  S. ;  but  it  is  perfectly  absurd  to 
suppose  me  capable  of  finishing  any  thing  my  father  has 
begun.  I  assure  you  I  don't  feel  flattered  by  your  pro- 
posal. I  have  got  a  man  of  more  consequence  for  a 
father  than  that  would  imply." 

All  this  time  my  tall  husband  sat  silent  at  the  foot  of 
the  table,  as  if  he  had  nothing  on  earth  to  do  with  the 
affair,  instead  of  coming  to  my  assistance,  when,  as  I 
thougbt,  I  really  needed  it,  especially  seeing  my  own 
father  was  of  the  combination  against  me ;  for  what  can 
be  more  miserable  than  to  be  taken  for  wiser  or  better 
or  cleverer  than  you  know  perfectly  well  you  are.     I 


THE    VI CAB'S  DAUGHTER.  5 

looked  down  the  table,  straight  and  sharp  at  him, 
thinking  to  rouse  him  by  the  most  powerful  of  silent 
appeals ;  and  when  he  opened  his  moath  very  solemnly, 
staring  at  me  in  return  down  all  the  length  of  the  table, 
I  thought  I  had  succeeded.  But  I  was  not  a  little  sur- 
prised, when  I  heard  him  say,  — 

"  I  think,  Wynnie,  as  your  father  and  Mr.  S.  appear 
to  wish  it,  you  might  at  least  try." 

This  almost  overcame  me,  and  I  was  very  near, — 
never  mind  what.  I  bit  my  lips,  and  tried  to  smile,  but 
felt  as  if  all  my  friends  had  forsaken  me,  and  were  about 
to  turn  me  out  to  beg  my  bread.  How  on  earth  could 
I  write  a  book  without  making  a  fool  of  myself? 

"  You-  know,  Mrs.  Percivale,"  said  Mr.  S.,  "  you 
needn't  be  afraid  about  the  composition,  and  the  spell- 
ing, and  all  that.  We  can  easily  set  those  to  rights  at 
the  office." 

He  couldn't  have  done  any  thing  better  to  send  the 
lump  out  of  my  throat ;  for  this  made  me  angry. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  anxious  about  the  spelling,"  I 
answered;  "  and  for  the  rest,  pray  what  is  to  become  of 
me,  if  what  you  print  should  happen  to  be  praised  by 
somebody  who  iikes  my  husband  or  my  father,  and  there- 
fore wants  to  s<».y  a  good  word  for  me  ?  That's  what  a 
good  deal  of  reviewing  comes  to,  I  understand.  Am  I 
to  receive  in  si.ijnce  what  doesn't  belong  to  me,  or  am  I 
to  send  a  letter  to  the  papers  to  say  that  the  whole  thing 
was  patched  and  polished  at  the  printing-office,  and  that 
I  have  no  right  to  more  than  perhaps  a  fourth  part  of 
the  commendation  ?     How  would  that  do  ?  " 

"  But  you  forget  it  is  not  to  have  vour  name  to  it,"  he 
said ;  "  and  so  it  won't  matter  a  oit.  There  will  be 
nothing  dishonest  about  it." 

"  You  forget,  that,  although  nobody  knows  my  real 
name,  everybody  will  know  that  I  am  the  daughter  of 
that  Mr.  Walton  who  would  have  thrown  his  pen  in  the 
fire  if  you  had  meddled  with  any  thing  he  wrote.  They 
would  be  praising  me,  if  they  praised  at  all.  The  name 
is  nothing.     Of  all  things,  to  have  praise  you  don't  de- 

1* 


6  THE    ri CAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

serve,  and  not  to  be  able  to  reject  it,  is  the  most  misera- 
ble !     It  is  as  bad  as  painting  one's  face." 

"  Hardly  a  case  in  point,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone.  "  For 
the  artiiicial  complexion  would  be  your  own  work,  and 
the  other  would  not." 

"  If  you  come  to  discuss  that  question,"  said  my 
father,  "  we  must  all  confess  we  have  had  in  our  day  to 
pocket  a  good  many  more  praises  than  we  had  a  right 
to.  I  agree  with  you,  however,  my  child,  that  we  must 
not  connive  at  any  thing  of  the  sort.  So  I  will  propose 
this  clause  in  the  bargain  between  you  and  Mr.  S. ; 
namely,  that,  if  he  finds  an}^  fault  with  your  work,  he 
shall  send  it  back  to  5'ourself  to  be  set  right,  and,  if  you 
cannot  do  so  to  his  mind,  you  shall  be  oft"  the  bargain." 

"  But  papa,  —  Percivale,  —  both  of  you  know  well 
enough  that  nothing  ever  happened  to  me  worth  tell- 
ing." 

"  I  am  sorry  your  life  has  been  so  very  uninteresting, 
wife,"  said  my  husband  grimly;  for  his  fun  is  always  so 
like  earnest ! 

"  You  know  well  enough  what  I  mean,  husband.  It 
does  7iot  follow  that  what  has  been  interesting  enough 
to  you  and  me  will  be  interesting  to  people  who  know 
nothing  at  all  about  us  to  begin  with." 

"  It  depends  on  how  it  is  told,"  said  Mr.  S. 

"  Then,  I  beg  leave  to  say,  that  I  never  had  an  origi- 
nal thought  in  my  life  ;  and  that,  if  I  were  to  attempt  to 
tell  my  history,  the  result  would  be  as  silly  a  narrative 
as  ever  one  old  woman  told  another  by  the  workhouse 
fire." 

"  And  I  only  wish  I  could  hear  the  one  old  woman 
tell  her  story  to  the  other,"  said  my  father. 

"  Ah !  but  that's  because  you  see  ever  so  much  more 
in  it  than  shows.  You  always  see  through  the  words 
and  the  things  to  something  lying  behind  them,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  if  you .  told  the  story  rightly,  other  people 
would  see  such  things  behind  it  too." 

"  Not  enough  of  people  to  make  it  worth  while  for 
Mr.  S.  to  print  it,''  I  said. 

"He's  not  going  to  print  it  except  he  thinks  it  worth 


TEE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  7 

his  wLile;  and  you  may  safely  leave  that  to  him,"  said 
my  husband. 

"  And  so  I'm  to  write  a  book  as  big  as  'The  Annals ; ' 
and,  after  I've  been  slaving  at  it  for  half  a  century  or  so, 
I'm  to  be  told  it  won't  do,  and  all  my  labor  must  go  for 
nothing  ?  I  must  say  the  proposal  is  rather  a  cool  one 
to  make,  —  to  the  mother  of  a  family." 

"Not  at  all;  that's  not  it,  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  S.;  "if 
you  will  write  a  dozen  pages  or  so,  I  shall  be  able  to 
judge  by  those  well  enough,  —  at  least,  I  will  take  all 
the  responsibility  on  myself  after  that." 

"  There's  a  fair  offer !  "  said  my  husband.  "  It  seems 
to  me,  Wynnie,  that  all  that  is  wanted  of  you  is  to  tell 
your  tale  so  that  other  people  can  recognize  the  human 
heart  in  it,  —  the  heart  that  is  like  their  own,  and  be 
able  to  feel  as  if  they  were  themselves  going  through 
the  things  you  recount." 

"  You  describe  the  work  of  a  genius,  and  coolly  ask 
me  to  do  it.  Besides,  I  don't  want  to  be  set  thinking 
about  my  heart,  and  all  that,"  I  said  peevishly. 

"  Now,  don't  be  raising  objections  where  none  exist," 
he  returned. 

"  If  you  mean  I  am  pretending  to  object,  I  have  only 
to  say  that  I  feel  all  one  great  objection  to  the  whole  af- 
fair, and  that  I  won't  touch  it." 

They  were  all  silent ;  and  I  felt  as  if  I  had  behaved 
ungraciously.  Then  first  I  felt  as  if  I  might  have  to 
do  it,  after  all.     But  I  couldn't  see  my  way  in  the  least. 

"Now,  what  is  there,"  I  asked,  "in  all  my  life  that. is 
worth  setting  down,  —  I  mean,  as  I  should  be  able  to 
set  it  down  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  ladies  talk  about  now  in  your  morning 
jails  ? "  suggested  Mr.  Blackstone,  with  a  humorous 
glance  from  his  deep  black  eyes. 

"  Nothing  worth  writing  about,  as  I  am  sure  you  will 
readily  believe,  Mr.  Blackstone,"  I  answered. 

"  How  comes  it  to  be  interesting,  then  ?  " 

"  But  it  isn't.  They  —  we  —  only  talk  about  the 
weather  and  our  children  and  servants,  and  that  sort  of 
thing." 


8  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Well !  "  said  Mr.  S.,  "  and  I  wish  I  could  get  anjt 
tiling  sensible  about  the  weather  and  children  and  ser- 
vants, and  that  sort  of  thing,  for  my  magazine.  I  have 
a  weakness  in  the  direction  of  the  sensible." 

"  But  there  never  is  any  thing  sensible  said  about  any 
of  them,  — not  that  I  know  of." 

"  Now,  Wynnie,  I  am  sure  you  are  wrong,"  said  my 
father.  "  There  is  your  friend,  Mrs.  Cromwell :  I  am 
certain  she,  sometimes  at  least,  must  say  what  is  worth 
hearing  about  such  matters." 

"Well,  but  she's  an  exception.  Besides,  she  hasn't 
any  children." 

"  Then,"  said  my  husband,  "  there's  Lady  Bernard  "  — 

"  Ah  !  but  she  was  like  no  one  else.  Besides,  she  is 
almost  a  public  character,  and  any  thing  said  about  her 
would  betray  my  original." 

"  It  would  be  no  matter.  She  is  beyond  caring  for 
that  now  ;  and  not  one  of  her  friends  could  object  to  any 
thing  you  who  loved  her  so  much  would  say  about  her." 

The  mention  of  this  lady  seemed  to  put  some  strength 
into  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  did  know  something  worth  tell- 
ing, and  I  was  silent  in  my  turn. 

"  Certainly,"  Mr.  S.  resumed,  "  whatever  is  worth 
talking  about  is  worth  writing  about,  — though  not  per- 
haps in  the  way  it  is  talked  about.  Besides,  Mrs.  Per- 
civale,  my  clients  want  to  know  more  about  your  sisters, 
and  little  Theodora,  or  Dorothea,  or  —  what  was  her 
name  in  the  book  ?  " 

The  end  of  it  was,  that  I  agreed  to  try  to  the  extent 
of  a  dozen  pages  or  so. 


CHAPTER    II. 

I   TRY. 

I  HOPE  no  one  will  think  I  try  to  write  like  my  fa- 
ther ;  for  that  would  be  to  go  against  what  he  always 
made  a  great  point  of,  —  that  nobody  whatever  should 
imitate  any  other  person  whatever,  but  in  modesty  and 
humility  allow  the  seed  that  God  had  sown  in  her  to 
grow.  He  said  all  imitation  tended  to  dwarf  and  distort 
the  plant,  if  it  even  allowed  the  seed  to  germinate  at  all. 
So,  if  I  do  write  like  him,  it  will  be  because  I  cannot 
help  it. 

I  will  just  look  how  "The  Seaboard  Parish"  ends, 
and  perhaps  that  will  put  into  my  head  how  I  ought 
to  begin.  I  see  my  father  does  mention  that  I  had  then 
been  Mrs,  Percivale  for  many  years.  Not  so  very  mau}'' 
though,  —  five  or  six,  if  I  remember  rightly,  and  that  is 
three  or  four  years  ago.  Yes  ;  I  have  been  married  nine 
years.  I  may  as  well  say  a  word  as  to  how  it  came 
about ;  and,  if  Percivale  doesn't  like  it,  the  remedy  lies 
in  his  pen.  I  shall  be  far  more  thankful  to  have  any 
thing  struck  out  on  suspicion  than  remain  on  sufferance. 

After  our  return  home  from  Kilkhaven,  my  father  and 
mother  had  a  good  many  tallvs  about  me  and  Percivale, 
and  sometimes  they  took  different  sides.  I  will  give  a 
shadow  of  one  of  these  conversations.  I  think  ladies 
can  write  fully  as  natural  talk  as  gentlemen  can,  though 
the  bits  between  mayn't  be  so  good. 

Mother.  —  I  am  afraid,  my  dear  husband  [This  was 
my  mother's  most  solemn  mode  of  addressing  my  father], 
"  they  are  too  like  each  other  to  make  a  suitable  match." 

Father.  —  I  am  sorry  to  learn  you  consider  me  so  very 
unlike  yourself,  Ethelwyn.  I  had  hoped  there  was  a 
very  strong  resemblance  indeed,  and  that  the  match  had 
not  proved  altogether  unsuitable. 


10  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

Mother.  —  Just  think,  though,  what  would  have  be- 
come of  me  by  this  time,  if  you  had  been  half  as  unbe- 
lieving a  creature  as  I  was.  Indeed,  I  fear  sometimes  I 
am  not  much  better  now. 

Father.  —  I  think  I  am,  then ;  and  I  know  you've 
done  me  nothing  but  good  with  your  unbelief.  It  was 
just  because  I  was  of  the  same  sort  precisely  that  I  was 
able  to  understand  and  help  you.  My  circumstances 
and  education  and  superior  years  — 

Mother.  —  Now,  don't  plume  yourself  on  that,  Harry  ; 
for  you  know  everybody  says  you  look  much  the  younger 
of  the  two. 

Father.  — I  had  no  idea  that  everybody  was  so  rude. 
I  repeat,  that  my  more  years,  as  well  as  my  severer  edu- 
cation, had,  no  doubt,  helped  me  a  little  further  on  be- 
fore I  came  to  know  you  ;  but  it  was  only  in  virtue  of 
the  doubt  in  me  that  I  was  able  to  understand  and  ap- 
preciate the  doubt  in  you. 

Jlofher.  —  But  then  you  had  at  least  begun  to  leave 
it  behind  before  I  knew  you,  and  so  had  grown  able  to 
help  me.  And  Mr.  Percivale  does  not  seem,  by  all  I 
can  make  out,  a  bit  nearer  believing  in  any  thing  than 
poor  Wynnie  herself. 

Fatlier.  —  At  least,  he  doesn't  fancy  he  believes  wlren 
he  does  not,  as  so  many  do,  and  consider  themselves  supe- 
rior persons  in  consequence.  I  don't  know  that  it  would 
have  done  you  any  great  harm,  Miss  Ethelwyn,  to  have 
made  my  acquaintance  when  I  was  in  the  worst  of  my 
doubts  concerning  the  truth  of  things.  Allow  me  to 
tell  you  that  I  was  nearer  making  shipwreck  of  my  faith 
at  a  certain  period  than  I  ever  was  before  or  have  been 
since. 

Mother.  —  What  period  was  that  ? 

Father.  —  Just  the  little  while  when  I  had  lost  all 
hope  of  ever  marrying  you, — unbeliever  as  you  count- 
ed yourself. 

Mother.  —  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  would  have 
ceased  to  believe  in  God,  if  he  hadn't  given  you  your 
own  way  ? 

Father.  —  No,  my  dear.     I  firmly  believe,  that,  had  I 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  H 

never  married  you,  I  should  have  come  in  the  end  to 
say,  ^'Thy  loill  be  done,'"  and  to  believe  that  it  must  be 
all  right,  however  hard  to  bear.  But,  oh,  what  a  terri- 
ble thing  it  would  liave  been,  and  wliat  a  frightful  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  death  I  should  have  had  to  go  through 
first ! 

[I  know  my  mother  said  nothing  more  just  then,  but 
let  my  father  have  it  all  his  own  way  for  a  while.] 

Father.  —  You  see,  this  Percivale  is  an  honest  man. 
I  don't  exactly  know  how  he  has  been  brought  up ;  and 
it  is  quite  possible  he  may  have  had  such  evil  instruction 
in  Christianity  that  he  attributes  to  it  doctrines  which, 
if  I  supposed  they  actually  belonged  to  it,  would  make 
me  reject  it  at  once  as  ungodlike  and  bad.  I  have  found 
this  the  case  sometimes.  I  remember  once  being  aston- 
ished to  hear  a  certain  noble-minded  lady  utter  some  in- 
dignant words  against  what  I  considered  a  very  weighty 
doctrine  of  Christianity ;  but,  listening,  I  soon  found 
that  what  she  supposed  the  doctrine  to  contain  was  some- 
thing considered  vastly  unchristian.  This  may  be  the 
case  with  Percivale,  though  I  never  heard  him  say  a 
word  of  the  kind.  I  think  his  difficulty  comes  mainly 
from  seeing  so  much  suffering  in  the  world,  that  he  can- 
not imagine  the  presence  and  rule  of  a  good  God,  and 
therefore  lies  with  religion  rather  than  with  Christianity 
as  3'et.  I  am  all  but  certain,  the  only  thing  that  will 
ever  make  him  able  to  believe  in  a  God  at  all  is  medita- 
tion on  the  Christian  idea  of  God,  —  I  mean  the  idea  of 
God  in  Christ  reconciling  the  world  to  himself,  —  not 
that,  pagan  corruption  of  Christ  in  God  reconciling  him 
to  the  world.  He  will  then  see  that  suftering  is  not 
either  wrath  or  neglect,  but  pure-hearted  love  and  ten- 
derness. But  we  must  give  him  time,  wife ;  as  God  has 
borne  with  us,  we  must  believe  that  he  bears  with  others, 
and  so  learn  to  wait  in  hopeful  patience  until  they,  too, 
see  as  we  see. 

And  as  to  trusting  our  Wj^nnie  with  Percivale,  he 
seems  to  be  as  good  as  she  is.  I  should  for  my  part 
have  more  apprehension  in  giving  her  to  one  who  would 
be  called  a  thoroughly  religious  man ;  for  not  only  would 


12  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

the  unfitness  be  greater,  but  such  a  man  would  be  more 
likely  to  confirm  her  in  doubt,  if  the  phrase  be  permissi- 
ble. She  wants  what  s-^me  would  call  homa?opatluc 
treatment.  And  how  shv)uld  they  be  able  to  love  one 
another,  if  they  are  not  fit  to  be  married  to  each  other  ? 
The  fitness  seems  inherent  to  the  fact. 

Mother.  —  But  many  a  two  love  each  other  who  would 
have  loved  each  other  a  good  deal  more  if  they  hadn't 
been  married. 

Father.  —  Then  it  was  most  desirable  they  should  find 
out  that  what  they  thought  a  grand  affection  was  not 
worthy  of  the  name.  But  I  don't  think  there  is  much 
fear  of  that  between  those  two. 

Mother.  —  I  don't,  however,  see  how  that  man  is  to  do 
her  any  good,  when  you  have  tried  to  make  her  happy 
for  so  long,  and  all  in  vain. 

Father.  —  I  don't  know  that  it  has  been  all  in  vain. 
But  it  is  quite  possible  she  does  not  understand  me. 
She  fancies,  I  dare  say.  that  I  believe  every  thing  with- 
out any  trouble,  and  therefore  cannot  enter  into  her  dif- 
ficulties. 

Mother.  —  But  you  have  told  her  many  and  many  a 
time  that  you  do. 

Father.  —  Yes  :  and  I  hope  I  was  right ;  but  the  same 
things  look  so  different  to  different  people  that  the  same 
words  won't  describe  them  to  both ;  and  it  may  seem  to 
her  that  I  am  talking  of  something  not  at  all  like  what 
she  is  feeling  or  thinking  of.  But  when  she  sees  the 
troubled  face  of  Percivale,  she  knows  that  he  is  suft'er- 
ing ;  and  sympathy  being  thus  established  between  them, 
the  least  word  of  the  one  will  do  more  to  help  the  other 
than  oceans  of  argument.  Love  is  the  one  great  in- 
structor. And  each  will  try  to  be  good,  and  to  find  out 
for  the  sake  of  the  other. 

Mother. — I  don't  like  her  going  from  home  for  the 
help  that  lay  at  her  very  door. 

Father. — You  know,  my  dear,  you  like  the  Dean's 
preaching  much  better  than  mine. 

Mother.  —  Now,  that  is  unkind  of  you  ! 

Father.  —  And  why  ?  [My  father  went  on,  taking  no 


TUP.    VICAR' H  fjAUGHTER.  IP, 

^leed  of  my  mother'«  expostulation.]  "  Because,  in  tlie 
first  place,  it  is  better ;  because,  in  the  second,  it  comes 
in  a  newer  form  to  you,  for  you  have  got  used  to  all  my 
modes;  in  the  third  place,  it  has  more  force  from  the 
fact  that  it  is  not  subject  to  the  doubt  of  personal  prefer- 
ence ;  and  lastly,  because  he  has  a  large,  comprehensive 
way  of  asserting  things,  which  pleases  you  better  than 
my  more  dubitant  mode  of  submitting  them,  —  all  very 
Kound  and  good  reasons  :  but  still,  why  be  so  vexed  with 
VVynnie  ? 

[My  mother  was  now,  however,  so  vexed  with  my 
father  for  saying  she  preferred  the  Dean's  preaching  to 
his,  —  although  I  doubt  very  much  whether  it  wasn't  true, 
■ — that  she  actually  walked  out  of  the  octagon  room 
where  they  were,  and  left  him  to  meditate  on  his  unkind- 
ness.  Vexed  with  herself  the  next  moment,  she  returned 
as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I  am  only  telling  what 
my  mother  told  me ;  for  to  her  grown  daughters  she  is 
blessedly  tru.sting.] 

Motlu'/r. —  Then  if  you  will  have  them  married,  hus- 
band, will  you  say  how  on  earth  you  expect  them  to  live  ? 
He  just  makes  both  ends  meet  now :  I  suppose  he 
doesn't  make  things  out  worse  than  they  are;  and  that 
is  his  own  account  of  the  state  of  his  aft'airs.    • 

FuJjiP.r.  —  Ah,  yes  I  that  is  —  a  secondary  considera- 
tion, my  dear.  Jiut  I  have  hardly  begun  to  think  about 
it  yet.  There  will  be  a  difficulty  there,  I  can  ea?iiy  im- 
agine ;  for  he  is  far  too  independent  to  let  us  do  any 
thing  for  him. 

Motlcer.  —  And  you  can't  do  much,  if  they  would, 
lieally,  they  oughtn't  to  marry  yet. 

Father.  —  lieally,  we  must  leave  it  to  themselves.  I 
don't  think  you  and  I  need  trouble  our  heads  about  it. 
When  Percivale  considers  himself  prepared  to  marry, 
and  Wynnie  thinks  he  is  right,  you  may  be  sure  they 
see  their  way  to  a  livelihood  without  running  in  hopeless 
debt  to  their  tradespeople. 

Motlidr.  —  Oh,  yes  !  I  dare  say  :  in  some  poky  little 
lodging  or  other! 

Falkcr.  —  For  my  part,  Ethelwyn,  I  think  it  better 

2 


14  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

to  build  castles  in  the  air  than  hnts  in  the  smoke.  But 
seriously,  a  little  poverty  and  a  little  struggling  would 
be  a  most  healthy  and  healing  tiling  for  Wynnie.  It 
hasn't  done  Percivale  much  good  yet,  I  confess;  for  he 
is  far  too  indifterent  to  his  own  comforts  to  mind  it :  but 
it  will  be  quite  another  thing  when  he  has  a  young  wife 
and  perhaps  children  depending  upon  him.  Then  his 
poverty  may  begin  to  hurt  him,  and  so  do  him  some 
good. 

It  may  seem  odd  that  my  father  and  mother  should 
now  be  taking  such  opposite  sides  to  those  they  took 
when  the  question  of  our  engagement  was  first  started, 
as  represented  by  my  father  in  "  The  Seaboard  Parish." 
But  it  will  seem  inconsistent  to  none  of  the  family  ;  for 
it  was  no  unusual  thing  for  them  to  take  opposite  sides 
to  those  they  had  previously  advocated,  —  each  happen- 
ing at  the  time,  jiossibly  enlightened  by  the  foregone 
arguments  of  the  other,  to  be  impressed  with  the  cor- 
relate truth,  as  my  father  calls  the  other  side  of  a  thing. 
Besides,  engagement  and  marriage  are  two  different 
things ;  and  although  my  mother  was  the  first  to  recog- 
nize the  good  of  our  being  engaged,  when  it  came  to 
marriage  she  got  frightened,  I  think.  Any  how,  I  have 
her  authority  for  saying  that  something  like  this  passed 
between  her  and  my  father  on  the  subject. 

Discussion  between  them  differed  in  this  from  what  I 
have  generally  heard  between  married  people,  that  it 
was  always  founded  on  a  tacit  understanding  of  certain 
unmentioned  principles  ;  and  no  doubt  sometimes,  if  a 
stranger  had  been  present,  he  would  have  been  bewil- 
dered as  to  the  very  meaning  of  what  they  were  saying. 
But  we  girls  generally  understood :  and  I  fancy  we 
learned  more  from  their  differences  than  from  their 
agreements ;  for.  of  course  it  was  the  differences  that 
brought  out  their  minds  most,  and  chiefly  led  us  to  think 
that  we  might  understand.  In  our  house  there  were 
very  few  of  those  mysteries  which  in  some  houses  seem 
so  to  abound;  and  I  think  the  openness  with  which 
every  question,  for  whose  concealment  there  was  no  spe- 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  15 

cial  reason,  was  discussed,  did  more  than  even  any  direct 
instruction  we  received  to  develop  what  thinking  faculty 
might  be  in  us.  Nor  was  there  much  reason  to  dread 
that  my  small  brothers  might  repeat  an}'  thing.  I  re- 
member hearing  Harry  say  to  Charley  once,  they  being 
then  eight  and  nine  years  old,  "  That  is  mamma's  opin- 
ion, Charley,  not  yours  ;  and  you  know  we  must  not  re- 
peat what  we  hear." 

They  soon  came  to  be  of  one  mind  about  Mr.  Perci- 
vale  and  me  :  for  indeed  the  only  I'eal  ground  for  doubt 
that  had  ever  existed  was,  whether  I  was  good  enough 
for  him ;  and  for  my  part,  I  knew  then  and  know  now, 
that  I  was  and  am  dreadfully  inferior  to  him.  And  not- 
withstanding the  tremendous  work  women  are  now  mak- 
ing about  their  rights  (and,  in  as  far  as  they  are  their 
rights,  I  hope  to  goodness  they  may  get  them,  if  it  were 
only  that  certain  who  make  me  feel  ashamed  of  myself 
because  I,  too,  am  a  woman,  miglit  perhaps  then  drop 
out  of  the  public  regard),  —  notwithstanding  this,  I  ven- 
ture the  sweeping  assertion,  that  every  woman  is  not  as 
good  as  every  man,  and  that  it  is  not  necessary  to  the 
dignity  of  a  wife  that  she  should  assert  even  equality 
with  her  husband.  Let  liim  assert  her  equality  or  su- 
periority if  he  will ;  but,  were  it  a  fact,  it  would  be  a 
poor  one  for  her  to  assert,  seeing  her  glory  is  in  her  hus- 
band. To  seek  the  chief  place  is  especially  unfitting 
the  marriage-feast.  Whether  I  be  a  Christian  or  not,  — 
and  I  have  good  reason  to  doubt  it  every  day  of  my  life, 
—  at  least  I  see  that  in  the  Kew  Jerusalem  one  essential 
of  citizenship  consists  in  knowing  how  to  set  the  good 
in  others  over  against  the  evil  in  ourselves. 

There,  now,  my  father  might  have  said  that !  and  no 
doubt  has  said  so  twenty  times  in  my  hearing.  It  is, 
however,  only  since  I  was  married  that  I  have  come  to 
see  it  for  myself;  and,  now  that  I  do  see  it,  I  have  a 
right  to  say  it. 

So  we  were  married  at  last.  ]\Iy  mother  believes  it 
was  my  father's  good  advice  to  Percivale  concerning  the 
sort  of  pictures  he  painted,  that  brought  it  about.  For 
certainly  soon  after  we  were  engaged,  he  began  to  have 


16  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

what  his  artist  friends  called  a  run  of  luck :  he  sold  one 
picture  after  another  in  a  very  extraordinary  and  hope- 
ful manner.  But  Percivale  says  it  was  his  love  for  me 
—  indeed  he  does  —  which  enabled  him  to  see  not  only 
much  deeper  into  things,  but  also  to  see  much  better  the 
bloom  that  hangs  about  every  thing,  and  so  to  paint 
much  better  pictures  than  before.  He  felt,  he  said,  that 
he  had  a  hold  now  where  before  he  had  only  a  sight. 
However  this  may  be,  he  had  got  on  so  well  for  a  while 
that  he  wrote  at  last,  that,  if  I  was  willing  to  share  his 
jioverty,  it  would  not,  he  thought,  be  absolute  starvation  ; 
and  I  was,  of  course,  perfectly  content.  I  can't  put  in 
words  —  indeed  I  dare  not,  for  fear  of  writing  what 
would  be,  if  not  unladylike,  at  least  uncharitable  —  my 
contempt  for  those  women  who,  loving  a  man,  hesitate  to 
run  every  risk  with  him.  Of  course,  if  they  cannot  trust 
him,  it  is  a  different  thing.  I  am  not  going  to  say  any 
thing  about  that ;  for  I  should  be  out  of  my  depth,  — 
not  in  the  least  understanding  how  a  woman  can  love  a 
man  to  whom  she  cannot  look  up.  I  believe  there  are 
who  can  ;  I  see  some  men  married  whom  I  don't  believe 
any  woman  ever  did  or  ever  could  respect ;  all  I  say  is, 
I  don't  understand  it. 

M}''  father  and  mother  made  no  objection,  and  were 
evidently  at  last  quite  agreed  that  it  would  be  the  best 
thing  for  both  of  us;  and  so,  I  say,  we  were  married. 

I  ouglit  to  just  mention,  that,  before  the  day  arrived, 
my  motlier  went  up  to  London  at  Percivale's  request,  to 
help  him  in  getting  together  the  few  things  absolutely 
needful  for  the  barest  commencement  of  housekeeping. 
For  the  rest,  it  had  tveen  ari-anged  that  we  should  furnisli 
by  degrees,  buying  as  we  saw  what  we  liked,  and  could 
afford  it.  The  greater  part  of  modern  fashions  in  furni- 
ture, having  both  been  accustomed  to  the  stateliness  of 
a  more  artistic  period,  we  detested  for  their  ugliness,  and 
chiefly,  therefore,  we  desired  to  look  about  us  at  our  lei- 
sure. 

My  mother  came  back  more  su  -sfied  widi  llio  Utile 
house  he  had  taken  than  I  had  expected.  It  was  not  so 
easy  to  get  one  to  suit  us;   for  of  course  he  required  a 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  17 

large  room  to  paint  in,  with  a  good  nortli  light.  He  had 
however  succeeded  better  than  he  had  hoped. 

'•'You  will  find  things  very  dififerent  from  what  you 
have  been  used  to,  Wynnie,"  said  my  mother. 

"  Of  course,  mamma;  I  know  that,"  I  answered.  "I 
hope  I  am  prepared  to  meet  it.  If  I  don't  like  it,  I  shall 
have  no  one  to  blame  but  myself;  and  I  don't  see  what 
right  people  have  to  expect  what  they  have  been  used 
to.^' 

"  There  is  just  this  advantage,"  said  my  father,  *'  in 
having  been  used  to  nice  things,  that  it  ought  to  be 
easier  to  keep  from  sinking  into  the  sordid,  however 
straitened  the  new  circumstances  may  be,  compared  with 
the  old." 

On  the  evening  before  the  wedding,  my  father  took 
me  into  the  octagon  room,  and  there  knelt  down  with 
me  and  my  mother,  and  praj'cd  for  me  in  such  a  won- 
derful way  that  1  was  perfectly  astonished  and  over- 
come. I  had  never  known  him  to  do  any  thing  of  the 
kind  before.  He  was  not  favorable  to  extempore  prayer 
in  public,  or  even  in  the  family,  and  indeed  had  often 
seemed  willing  to  omit  prayers  for  what  I  could  not 
always  count  sufficient  reason  :  he  had  a  horror  at  their 
getting  to  be  a  matter  of  course,  and  a  form  ;  for  then, 
he  said,  they  ceased  to  be  worship  at  all,  and  were  a 
mere  pagan  rite,  better  far  left  alone.  I  remember  also 
he  said,  that  those,  however  good  they  might  be,  who 
urged  attention  to  the  forms  of  religion,  such  as  going 
to  church  and  saying  prayers,  were,  however  innocently, 
just  the  prophets  of  Pharisaism  ;  that  what  men  had  to 
be  stirred  up  to  was  to  lay  hold  upon  God,  and  then 
they  would  not  fail  to  find  out  what  religious  forms  they 
ought  to  cherish.  '•'  The  spirit  first,  and  then  the  flesh," 
he  would  say.  To  put  the  latter  before  the  former  was 
a  falsehood,  and  therefore  a  frightful  danger,  being  at 
the  root  of  all  declensions  in  the  Church,  and  making 
ever-recurring  earthquakes  and  persecutions  and  repent- 
ances and  reformations  needful.  I  find  what  my  father 
used  to  say  coming  back  so  often  now  that  I  hear  so  lit- 
tle of  it,  —  especially  as  he  talks  much  less,  accusing  him- 

2* 


18  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

self  of  having  always  talked  too  much,  —  and  I  under- 
stand it  so  much  better  now,  that  I  shall  be  always  in 
danger  of  interrupting  my  narrative  to  say  something 
that  he  said.  But  when  I  commence  the  next  chapter, 
I  shall  get  on  faster,  I  hope.  Mj'  story  is  like  a  vessel 
I  saw  once  being  launclied :  it  would  stick  on  the  stocks, 
instead  of  sliding  away  into  the  expectant  waters. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MY   WEDDING. 

I  CONFESS  the  first  thing  I  did  when  I  knew  myself 
the  next  morning  was  to  have  a  good  cry.  To  leave  the 
place  where  I  had  been  born  was  like  forsaking  the  la\v3 
and  order  of  the  Nature  I  knew,  for  some  other  Nature 
it  might  be,  but  not  known  to  me  as  such.  How,  for 
instance,  could  one  who  has  been  used  to  our  bright 
white  sun,  and  our  pale  modest  moon,  with  our  soft  twi- 
lights, and  far,  mysterious  skies  of  night,  be  willing  to 
fall  in  with  the  order  of  things  in  a  planet,  such  as  I 
have  read  of  somewhere,  with  three  or  four  suns,  one  red 
and  another  green  and  another  yellow  ?  Only  perhaps 
I've  taken  it  all  up  wrong,  and  I  do  like  looking  at  a 
landscape  for  a  minute  or  so  through  a  colored  glass ; 
and  if  it  be  so,  of  course  it  all  blends,  and  all  we  want  is 
harmony.  What  I  mean  is,  that  I  found  it  a  great 
wrench  to  leave  the  dear  old  place,  and  of  course  loved 
it  more  than  I  had  ever  loved  it.  But  I  would  get  all 
my  crying  about  that  over  beforehand.  It  would  be 
bad  enough  afterwards  to  have  to  part  with  my  father 
and  mother  and  Connie,  and  the  rest  of  them.  Only 
it  wasn't  like  leaving  them.  You  can't  leave  hearts  as 
you  do  rooms.  You  can't  leave  thoughts  as  you  do 
books.  Those  you  love  only  come  nearer  to  j^ou  when 
you  go  away  from  them.  The  same  rules  don't  hold  with 
thinks  and  thinffs,  as  my  eldest  boy  distinguished  them 
the  other  day. 

But  somehow  I  couldn't  get  up  and  dress.  I  seemed 
to  have  got  very  fond  of  my  own  bed,  and  the  queer  old 
crows,  as  I  had  called  them  from  babyhood,  on  the 
chintz  curtains,  and  the  Chinese  paper  on  the  walls 
with  the  strangest  birds  and  creeping  things  on  it.  It 
wras  a  lovely  spring  morning,  and  the  sun  was  shining 

19 


20  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

glorionsly.  I  knew  tliat  the  rain  of  the  last  night  must 
be  glittering  on  the  grass  and  the  young  leaves ;  and  I 
heard  the  birds  singing  as  if  they  knew  far  more  than 
mere  human  beings,  and  believed  a  great  deal  more  than 
they  knew.  Nobody  will  persuade  me  that  the  birds 
don't  mean  it ;  that  they  sing  from  any  thing  else  than 
gladness  of  heart.  And  if  they  don't  think  about  cats 
and  guns,  why  should  they  ?  Even  when  they  fall  on 
the  ground,  it  is  not  without  our  Father.  How  horridly 
dull  and  stupid  it  seems  to  say  that  "  without  your  Fa- 
ther "  means  without  his  knoiving  it.  .  The  Father's  mere 
knowledge  of  a  thing  —  if  that  could  be,  which  my  fa- 
ther says  can't  —  is  not  the  Father.  The  Father's 
tenderness  and  care  and  love  of  it  all  the  time,  that 
is  the  not  falling  without  him.  When  the  cat  kills  the 
bird,  as  I  have  seen  happen  so  often  in  our  poor  little 
London  garden,  God  yet  saves  his  bird  from  his  cat. 
There  is  nothing  so  bad  as  it  looks  to  our  half-sight, 
our  blinding  jierceptions.  My  father  used  to  say  we  are 
all  walking  in  a  spiritual  twilight,  and  are  all  more  or 
less  affected  with  twilight  blindness,  as  some  people  are 
phj'sically.  Percivale,  for  one,  who  is  as  brave  as  any 
wife  could  wish,  is  far  more  timid  than  I  am  in  crossing 
a  London  street  in  the  twilight ;  he  can't  see  what  is 
coming,  and  fancies  he  sees  what  is  not  coming.  But 
then  he  has  faith  in  me,  and  never  starts  when  I  am 
leading  him. 

Well,  the  birds  were  singing,  and  Dora  and  the  boys 
•were  making  a  great  chatter,  like  a  whole  colonj'  of 
sparrows,  under  my  window.  Still  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
twenty  questions  to  settle  before  I  could  get  up  comforta- 
bly, and  so  lay  on  and  on  till  the  breakfast-bell  rang : 
and  I  was  not  more  than  half  dressed  when  my  mother 
came  to  see  why  I  was  late;  for  I  had  not  been  late  for- 
ever so  long  before. 

She  comforted  me  as  nobody  but  a  mother  can  com- 
fort. Oh,  I  do  hope  I  shall  be  to  mj'-  children  what  my 
mother  has  been  to  me !  It  would  be  such  a  blessed 
thing  to  be  a  well  of  water  whence  they  may  be  sure  of 
draM'ing  comfort.     And  all  she  said  to  me  has  come  true. 


TBE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  21 

Of  course,  my  father  gave  me  away,  and  Mr.  Woir 
married  us. 

It  had  been  before  agreed  that  we  should  have  no 
wedding  journey.  We  all  liked  the  old-fashioned  plan 
of  the  bride  going  straight  from  her  father's  house  to 
her  husband's.  The  other  way  seemed  a  poor  invention, 
just  for  the  sake  of  something  different.  So  after  the 
wedding,  we  spent  the  time  as  we  should  have  done  any 
other  day,  wandering  about  in  groups,  or  sitting  and 
reading,  only  that  we  were  all  more  smartly  dressed ; 
until  it  was  time  for  an  early  dinner,  after  which  we 
drove  to  the.station,  accompanied  only  by  my  father  and 
mother.  After  they  left  us,  or  rather  we  left  them,  my 
husband  did  not  speak  to  me  for  nearly  an  hour :  I 
knew  why,  and  was  very  grateful.  He  would  not  show 
his  new  face  in  the  midst  of  my  old  loves  aud  their  sor- 
rows, but  would  give  me  time  to  re-arrange  the  grouping 
so  as  myself  to  bring  him  in  when  all  was  ready  for  him. 
I  know  that  was  what  he  was  thinking,  or  feeling 
rather;  and  I  understood  him  perfectly.  At  last,  when 
I  had  got  things  a  little  tidier  inside  me,  and  had  got 
my  eyes  to  stop,  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him,  and  then  — 
I  knew  that  I  was  his  wife. 

This  is  all  I  have  got  to  tell,  though  I  have  plenty 
more  to  keep,  till  we  get  to  London.  There,  instead  of 
my  father's  nice  carriage,  we  got  into  a  jolting,  lum- 
bering, horrid  cab,  with  my  five  boxes  and  Percivale's 
little  portmanteau  on  the  top  of  it,  and  dro've  away  to 
Camden  Town.  It  was  to  a  part  of  it  near  the  Regent's 
Park ;  and  so  our  letters  were  always,  according  to  the 
divisions  of  the  post-office,  addressed  to  Regent's  Park, 
but  for  all  i^ractical  intents  we  were  in  Camden  Town, 
It  was  indeed  a  change  from  a  fine  old  house  in  the 
country;  but  the  street  wasn't  much  uglier  than  Bel- 
grave  Square,  or  any  other  of  those  heaps  of  uglinesses, 
called  squares,  in  the  West  End  ;  and,  after  what  I  had 
been  told  to  expect,  I  was  surprised  at  the  prettiness  of 
the  little  house,  when  I  stepped  out  of  the  cab  aud 
looked  about  me.  It  was  stuck  on  like  a  swallow's  nest 
to  the  end  of  a  great  row  of  commonplace  houses,  nearly 


22  ,  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length,  but  itself  was  not  the 
work  of  one  of  those  wretched  builders  who  care  no 
more  for  beauty  in  what  they  build  than  a  scavenger  in 
the  heap  of  mud  he  scrapes  from  the  street.  It  had 
been  built  by  a  painter  for  himself,  in  the  Tudor  style  ; 
and  though  Percivale  says  the  idea  is  not  very  well  car- 
ried out,  I  like  it  much. 

I  found  it  a  little  dreary  when  I  entered  though,  — 
from  its  emptiness.  The  only  sitting-room  at  all  pre- 
pared had  just  a  table  and  two  or  three  old-fashioned 
chairs  in  it ;  not  even  a  carpet  on  the  floor.  The  bed- 
room and  dressing-room  were  also  as  scantily  furnished 
as  they  well  could  be. 

"  Don't  be  dismayed,  my  darling,"  said  my  husband. 
"  Look  here,"  —  showing  me  a  bunch  of  notes,  —  "  we 
shall  go  out  to-morrow  and  buy  all  we  want,  —  as  far  as 
this  will  go,  —  and  then  wait  for  the  rest.  It  will  be  such 
a  pleasure  to  buy  the  things  with  you,  and  see  them  come 
home,  and  have  you  appoint  their  places.  You  and 
Sarah  will  make  the  carpets  ;  won't  you  ?  And  I  will 
put  them  down,  and  we  shall  be  like  birds  building 
their  ne.ot." 

"  We  have  only  to  line  it ;  the  nest  is  built  al- 
ready." 

"  Well,  neither  do  the  birds  build  the  tree.  I  won- 
der if  they  ever  sit  in  their  old  summer  nests  in  the 
winter  nights." 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  I  answered  ;  ''  but  I'm  asham(  d 
to  say  I  can't  tell." 

"  It  is  the  only  pretty  house  I  know  in  all  London," 
he  went  on,  "  with  a  studio  at  the  back  of  it.  I  have 
had  my  eye  on  it  for  a  long  time,  but  there  seemed  no 
sign  of  a  migratory  disposition  in  the  bird  who  had  oc- 
cupied it  for  three  years  past.  All  at  once  he  spread 
his  wings  and  flew.     I  count  myself  very  fortunate." 

"  So  do  I.  But  now  you  must  let  me  see  your 
study,"  I  said.  "I  hope  I  may  sit  in  it  when  you've 
got  nobody  there." 

"  As  much  as  ever  you  like,  my  love,"  he  answered. 
"  Only  I  don't  want  to  make  all  my  women  like  you,  as 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  23 

I've  been  doing  for  the  last  two  years.  You  must  get 
me  out  of  that  somehow." 

"Easil}'.  I  shall  be  so  cross  and  disagreeable  that 
you  will  get  tired  of  me,  and  find  no  more  difficulty  in 
keeping  me  out  of  your  pictures." 

But  he  got  me  out  of  his  pictures  without  that ;  for 
when  he  had  me  always  before  him  he  didn't  want  to 
be  always  producing  me. 

He  led  me  into  the  little  hall,  —  made  lovely  by  a 
cast  of  an  unfinished  Madonna  of  Michael  Angelo's  let 
into  the  wall,  —  and  then  to  the  back  of  it,  where  he 
opened  a  small  cloth-covered  door,  when  there  3'awned 
before  me,  below  me,  and  above  me,  a  great  wide  lofty 
room.     Down  into  it  led  an  almost  perpendicular  stair. 

"  So  you  keep  a  little  private  precipice  here,"  I  said. 

"No,  my  dear,"  he  returned  ;  "you  mistake.  It  is  a 
Jacob's  ladder,  —  or  will  be  in  one  moment  more." 

He  gave  me  his  hand,  and  led  me  down. 

"  This  is  quite  a  banqueting-hall,  Percivale ! "  I 
cried,  looking  round  me. 

"  It  shall  be,  the  first  time  I  get  a  thousand  pounds 
for  a  picture,"  he  returned. 

"  How  grand  you  talk ! "  I  said,  looking  up  at  him 
with  some  wonder ;  for  big  words  rarely  came  out  of  his 
mouth. 

"  Well,"  he  answered  merrily,  "  I  had  two  hundred 
and  seventy-five  for  the  last." 

"  That's  a  long  way  off  a  thousand,"  I  returned,  with 
a  silly  sigh. 

"  Quite  right ;  and,  therefore,  this  study  is  a  long  way 
off  a  banqueting-hall." 

There  was  literally  nothing  inside  the  seventeen  feet 
cube  except  one  chair,  one  easel,  a  horrible  thing  like 
a  huge  doll,  with  no  end  of  joints,  called  a  lay  figure, 
but  Percivale  called  it  his  bishop  ;  a  number  of  pictures 
leaning  tlieir  faces  against  the  walls  in  attitudes  of 
grief  tliat  their  beauty  was  despised  and  no  man  would 
buy  them  ;  a  few  casts  of  legs  and  arms  and  faces,  half 
a  dozen  murderous-looking  weapons,  and  a  couple  of 
yards  square  of  the  most  exquisite  tapestry  I  ever  saw. 


24  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Do  you  like  being  read  to  when  you  are  at  work  ?  " 
I  asked  him. 

"  Sometimes,  —  at  certain  kinds  of  work,  but  not  by 
any  means  always,"  he  answered.  "  Will  yon  shut  your 
eyes  for  one  minute,"  he  went  on,  "  and,  whatever  I  do, 
not  open  them  till  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"You  m-usn't  hurt  me,  then,  or  I  may  open  them 
without  being  able  to  help  it,  you  know,"  I  said,  closing 
my  eyes  tight. 

"  Hurt  3^ou  !  "  he  repeated,  with  a  tone  I  would  not 
put  on  paper  if  I  could,  and  the  same  moment  I  found 
myself  in  his  arms,  carried  like  a  baby,  for  Percivale  is 
one  of  the  strongest  of  men. 

It  was  only  for  a  few  yards,  however.  He  laid  me 
down  somewhere,  and  told  me  to  open  my  eyes. 

I  could  scarcely  believe  them  when  I  did.  I  was  ly- 
ing on  a  couch  in  a  room,  —  small,  indeed,  but  beyond 
exception  the  loveliest  I  had  ever  seen.  At  first  I  wa3 
only  aware  of  an  exquisite  harmony  of  color,  and  could 
not  have  told  of  what  it  was  composed.  The  place  was 
lighted  by  a  soft  lamp  that  hung  in  the  middle ;  and 
when  my  eyes  went  up  to  see  where  it  was  fascened,  I 
found  the  ceiling  marvellous  in  deep  blue,  with  a  suspi- 
cion of  green,  just  like  some  of  the  shades  of  a  peacock's 
feathers,  with  a  multitude  of  gold  and  red  stars  upon  :. 
What  the  walls  were  I  could  not  for  some  time  tell,  thjy 
were  so  covered  with  pictures  and  sketches ;  against  one 
was  a  lovely  little  set  of  book-shelves  filled  with  books, 
and  on  a  little  carved  table  stood  a  vase  of  white  hot-house 
flowers,  with  one  red  camellia.  One  picture  had  a  cur- 
tain of  green  silk  before  it,  and  by  its  side  hung  the 
wounded  knight  whom  his  friends  were  carrying  home 
to  die. 

"•  0  my  Percivale  !  "  I  cried,  and  could  say  no  m^re. 

"Do you  like  it?^'  he  asked  quietly,  but  with  shining 
eyes. 

"  Like  it  ?  "  I  repeated.  "  Shall  I  like  Paradise  when 
I  get  there  ?  But  what  a  lot  of  money  it  must  have 
cost  you ! " 

"  Not  much;"  he  answered ;  "  not  more  than  thirty 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  25 

pounds  or  so.  Every  spot  of  paint  there  is  from  my  own 
brush." 

"  0  Percivale  ! " 

I  must  make  a  conversation  of  it  to  tell  it  at  all ;  but 
what  I  really  did  say  I  know  no  more  than  the  man  in 
the  moon. 

"The  carpet  was  the  only  expensive  thing..  That 
must  be  as  thick  as  I  could  get  it;  for  the  floor  is  of 
stone,  and  must  not  come  near  your  pretty  feet.  Guess 
what  the  place  was  before." 

"  I  should  say,  the  flower  of  a  prickly-pear  cactus, 
full  of  sunlight  from  behind,  which  a  fairy  took  the 
fancy  to  swell  into  a  room." 

"It  was  a  shed,  in  which  the  sculptor  who  occupied 
the  place  before  me  used  to  keep  his  wet  clay  and  blocks 
of  marble." 

"Seeing  is  hardly  believing,"  I  said.  "Is  it  to  be 
my  room  ?  I  know  you  mean  it  for  my  room,  v/here  I 
can  ask  you  to  come  when  I  please,  and  where  I  can 
hide  when  any  one  comes  you  don't  want  me  to  see." 

"That  is  just  what  I  meant  it  for,  my  Ethel wyn, — 
and  to  let  you  know  what  I  tvould  do  for  you  if  I  could." 

"I  hate  the  place,  Percivale,"  I  said.  "What  right 
has  it  to  come  poking  in  between  you  and  me,  telling 
me  what  I  know  and  have  known — for,  well,  I  won't 
say  how  long  —  far  better  than  even  you  can  tell  me?" 

He  looked  a  little  troubled. 

"  Ah,  my  dear ! "  I  said,  "  let  my  foolish  words 
breathe  and  die." 

I  wonder  sometimes  to  think  how  seldom  I  am  in  that 
room  now.  But  there  it  is ;  and  somehow  I  seem  to 
know  it  all  the  time  I  am  busy  elsewhere. 

He  made  me  shut  my  eyes  again,  and  carried  me 
into  the  stud3^ 

"ISTow,"  he  said,  "'find  your  way  to  your  own  room." 

I  looked  about  me,  but  could  see  no  sign  of  door.  He 
took  up  a  tall  stretcher  with  a  canvas  on  it,  and  revealed 
the  door,  at  the  same  time  showing  a  likeness  of  myself, 
—  at  the  top  of  the  Jacob's  ladder,  as  he  called  it,  with 
•jne  foot  ou  the  first  step,  and  the  other  half  way  to  the 
s 


2a  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGUTER. 

second.  The  light  came  from  the  window  on  my  left, 
which  he  had  turned  into  a  western  window,  in  order  to 
get  certain  effects  from  a  supposed  sunset.  I  was  repre- 
sented in  a  white  dress,  tinged  with  the  rose  of  the 
west;  and  he  had  managed,  attributing  the  phenomenon 
to  the  inequalities  of  the  glass  in  the  window,  to  suggest 
one  rosy  wing  behind  me,  with  just  the  shoulder-roof  of 
another  visible. 

"  There  !  "  he  said.  "  It  is  not  finished  yet,  but  that 
is  how  I  saw  you  one  evening  as  I  was  sitting  here  all 
alone  in  the  twilight." 

"  But  you  didn't  really  see  me  like  that ! "  I  said. 
"  I  hardly  know,"  he  answered.  "  I  had  been  forgetting 
every  thing  else  in  dreaming  about  you,  and  —  how  it 
was  I  cannot  tell,  but  either  in  the  body  or  out  of  the 
body  there  I  saw  you,  standing  just  so  at  the  top  of  the 
stair,  smiling  to  me  as  much  as  to  saj^,  '  Have  patience. 
My  foot  is  on  the  first  step.  I'm  coming.'  I  turned  at 
once  to  my  easel,  and  before  the  twilight  was  gone  had 
sketched  the  vision.  To-morrow,  you  must  sit  to  me  for 
an  hour  or  so  ;  for  I  will  do  nothing  else  till  I  have  fin- 
ished it,  and  sent  it  off  to  your  father  and  mother." 

I  may  just  add  that  I  hear  it  is  considered  a  very 
fine  painting.  It  hangs  in  the  great  dining-room  at 
home.     I  wish  I  were  as  good  as  he  has  made  it  look. 

The  next  morning,  after  I  had  given  him  the  sitting 
he  wanted,  we  set  out  on  our  furniture  hunt ;  when, 
having  keen  enough  eyes,  I  caught  sight  of  this  and  of 
that  and  of  twenty  different  things  in  the  brokers'  shops. 
We  did  not  agree  about  the  merits  of  every  thing  by 
which  one  or  the  other  was  attracted ;  but  an  objc-tion 
by  the  one  always  turned  the  other,  a  little  at  least,  and 
we  bought  nothing  we  were  not  agreed  about.  Yet 
that  evening  the  hall  was  piled  with  things  sent  home 
to  line  our  nest.  Percivale,  as  I  have  said,  had  saved 
up  some  money  for  the  purpose,  and  I  had  a  hundred 
pounds  my  father  had  given  me  before  we  started, 
which,  never  having  had  more  than  ten  of  my  own  at  a 
time,  I  was  eager  enough  to  spend.  So  we  found  plenty 
to  do  for  the  fortnight  during  which  time  my  mother 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  27 

had  promised  to  say  nothing  to  her  friends  in  London 
of  our  arrival.  Percivale  also  keeping  out  of  the  way 
of  his  friends,  everybody  thought  we  were  on  the  Con- 
tinent, or  somewhere  else,  and  left  us  to  ourselves.  And 
as  he  had  sent  in  his  pictures  to  the  Academy,  he  was 
ablo  to  take  a  rest,  which  rest  consisted  in  working  hard 
at  iill  sorts  of  upholstery,  not  to  mention  painters'  and 
carpenters'  work ;  so  that  we  soon  got  the  little  house 
made  into  a  very  warm  and  very  pretty  nest.  I  may 
mention  that  Percivale  was  particularly  pleased  with  a 
cabinet  I  bought  for  him  on  the  sly,  to  stand  in  his 
stud}',  and  hold  his  paints  and  brushes  and  sketches;  for 
there  were  all  sorts  of  drawers  in  it,  and  some  that  it 
took  us  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  find  out,  though  he 
was  c-over  enough  to  suspect  them  from  the  first,  when 
I  hadn't  a  thought  of  such  a  thing ;  and  I  have  often 
fancied  since  that  that  cabinet  was  just  like  himself,  for 
I  have  been  going  on  finding  out  things  in  him  that  I 
had  no  idea  were  there  when  I  married  him.  I  had  no 
idea  that  he  was  a  poet,  for  instance.  I  wonder  to  this 
day  why  he  never  showed  me  any  of  his  verses  before 
we  were  married.  He  writes  better  poetry  than  my' 
father,  —  at  least  my  father  says  so.  Indeed,  I  soon 
came  to  feel  very  ignorant  and  stupid  beside  him  ;  he 
could  tell  me  so  manj'^  things,  and  especially  in  art  (for 
he  had  thought  about  all  kinds  of  it),  making  me  un- 
derstand that  there  is  no  end  to  it,  any  more  than  to  the 
Nature  which  sets  it  going,  and  that  the  more  we  see 
into  Nature,  and  try  to  represent  it,  the  more  ignorant 
and  helpless  we  find  ourselves,  until  at  length  I  began 
to  wonder  whether  God  might  not  have  made  the  world 
60  rich  and  full  just  to  teach  his  children  humility.  For 
a  while  I  felt  quite  stunned.  He  very  much  wanted  me 
to  draw  ;  but  I  thought  it  was  no  use  trj-ing,  and,  in- 
deed, had  no  heart  for  it.  I  spoke  to  my  fatlier  about 
it.  He  said  it  was  indeed  of  no  use,  if  my  object  was  to 
be  able  to  think  much  of  myself,  for  no  one  could 
ever  succeed  in  that  in  the  long  run  ;  but  if  my  object 
was  to  reap  the  delight  of  the  truth,  it  was  worth  while 
to  spend  hours  and  hours  on  trying  to  draw  a  single  tree- 
leaf,  or  paint  the  wing  of  a  moth. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Judy's  visit. 

The  very  first  morning  after  the  expiry  of  the  fort- 
night, when  I  was  in  the  kitchen  with  Sarah,  giving 
her  instructions  about  a  certain  dish  as  if  I  had  made 
it  twenty  times,  whereas  I  had  only  just  learned  how 
from  a  shilling  cookery-book,  there  came  a  double  knock 
at  the  door.     I  guessed  who  it  must  be. 

"Run,  Sarah,"  I  said,  "and  show  Mrs.  Morley  into 
the  drawing-room." 

When  I  entered,  there  she  was,  —  Mrs.  Morley,  alias 
Cousin  Judy. 

"Well,  little  cozzie!"  she  cried,  as  she  kissect  me 
three  or  four  times,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  gone  the  way 
of  womankind, — wooed  and  married  and  a'!  Fate, 
child  !  inscrutable  fate  !  "  and  she  kissed  me  again. 

She  always  calls  me  little  coz,  though  I  am  a  head 
taller  than  herself.  She  is  as  good  as  ever,  quite  as 
brusque,  and  at  the  first  word  apparently  more  over- 
bearing. But  she  is  as  ready  to  listen  to  reason  as 
ever  was  woman  of  my  acquaintance  ;  and  I  think  the 
form  of  her  speech  is  but  a  somewhat  distorted  reflex  of 
her  perfect  honesty.  After  a  little  trifling  talk,  which 
is  sure  to  come  first  when  people  are  more  than  ordina- 
rily glad  to  meet,  I  asked  after  lier  children.  I  forget 
how  many  there  were  of  them,  but  they  were  t2ien 
pretty  far  into  the  plural  number. 

"  Growing  like  ill  weeds,"  she  said  ;  "  as  anxious  as 
ever  their  grandfathers  and  mothers  were  to  get  their 
heads  up  and  do  mischief.  For  my  part  1  wish  I  was 
Jove,  —  to  start  thein  full  grown  at  once.  Or  why 
shouldn't  they  be  made  like  Eve  out  of  their  father's 
ribs  ?     It  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  their  mother." 

My  father  had  always  been  much  pleased  with  the 
results  of  Judy's  training,  as  contrasted  with  those  of 

28 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  29 

his  sister's.  The  little  ones  of  my  aunt  Martha's  family 
were  always  wanting  something,  and  always  looking 
care-worn  like  their  mother,  while  she  was  always  read- 
ing them  lectures  on  their  duty,  and  never  making  them 
mind  what  she  said.  She  would  represent  the  self-same 
thing  to  them  over  and  over,  until  not  merely  all  force, 
but  all  sense  as  well,  seemed  to  have  forsaken  it.  Her 
notion  of  duty  was  to  tell  them  yet  again  the  duty  which 
they  had  been  told  at  least  a  thousand  times  already, 
without  the  slightest  result.  They  were  dull  children, 
wearisome  and  uninteresting.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
little  Morleys  were  full  of  life  and  eagerness.  The  fault 
in  them  was  that  they  wouldn't  take  petting ;  and  what's 
the  good  of  a  child  that  won't  be  petted?  They  lacked 
that  something  which  makes  a  woman  feel  motherly. 

"  When  did  3'ou  arrive,  cozzie  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  A  fortnight  ago  yesterday." 

"Ah,  you  sly  thing!     What  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself  all  the  time?" 

"  Furnishing." 

"  What !  you  came  into  an  empty  house  ?  " 

"  Not  quite  that,  but  nearly." 

"  It  is  very  odd  I  should  never  have  seen  your  hus- 
band.    We  have  crossed  each  other  twenty  times." 

"Not  so  ver)/  odd,  seeing  he  has  been  my  husband 
only  a  fortnight." 

"  What  is  he  like  ?  " 

"  Like  nothing  but  himself." 

"Is  he  tall?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  he  stout?" 

"No." 

«  An  Adonis  ?  " 

"No." 

"  A  Hercules  ?  " 

«No." 

"  Very  clever,  I  believe." 

"  Not  at  all." 

For  my  father  had  taught  me  to  look  down  on  that 
word. 

3* 


30  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"Why  did  you  marry  him  then?" 

"  I  didn't.     He  married  me." 

"  What  d:d  you  marry  him  for  then  ?" 

"For  love." 

"  What  did  you  love  him  for  ?  " 

"Because  he  was  a  philosopher." 

"  Tliat's  the  oddest  reason  I  ever  heard  for  marrying 
a  man." 

"  I  said  for  loving  him,  Judy." 

Her  bright  eyes  were  twinkling  with  fun, 

"  Come,  cozzie,"  she  said,  "  give  me  a  proper  reason 
for  falling  in  love  with  this  husband  of  yours." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  then,"  I  said ;  "  only  you  musn't 
tell  any  other  body ;  he's  got  such  a  big  shaggy  head, 
just  like  a  lion's." 

"  And  such  a  huge  big  foot,  — just  like  a  bear's  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  such  great  huge  hands!  Why,  the  two 
of  them  go  quite  round  my  waist !  And  such  big  eyes, 
that  they  look  right  through  me ;  and  such  a  big  heart, 
that  if  he  saw  me  doing  any  thing  wrong,  he  would 
kill  me,  and  bury  me  in  it." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  it  is  the  most  extraordinary  de- 
scription of  a  husband  I  ever  heard.  It  sounds  to  me 
very  like  an  ogre." 

"  Yes  ;  I  admit  the  description  is  rather  ogrish.  But 
then  he's  poor,  and  that  makes  up  for  a  good  deal." 

I  was  in  the  humor  for  talking  nonsense,  and  of 
course  expected  of  all  people  that  Judy  would  under- 
stand my  fun. 

"  How  does  that  make  up  for  any  thing  ?  " 

"  Because  if  he  is  a  poor  man,  he  isn't  a  rich  man, 
and  therefore  not  so  likely  to  be  a  stupid." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?  " 

"  Because,  first  of  all,  the  rich  man  doesn't  know 
what  to  do  with  his  money,  whereas  my  ogre  knows 
what  to  do  without  it.  Then  the  ricli  man  wonders  in 
the  morning  which  waistcoat  he  shall  put  on,  while  my 
ogre  has  but  one,  besides  his  Sunday  one.  Then  sup- 
posing the  rich  man  has  slept  well,  and  has  done  a  fair 
stroke  or  two  of  business,  he  wants  nothing  but  a  well- 


^  "^^  OP  THK  ^^^^ 

^U2ri7EESlT5M 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER  31 

dressed  wife,  a  well-dressed  dinner,  a  few  grasses  of  his 
favorite  wine,  and  the  evening  paper,  well-diluted  with 
a  sleep  in  his  easy  chair,  to  be  perfectly  satisfied  that 
this  world  is  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds.  Now  my 
ogre,  on  the  other  hand  "  — 

I  was  going  on  to  point  out  how  frightfully  different 
from  all  this  my  ogre  was,  —  how  he  would  devour  a 
half-cooked  chop,  and  drink  a  pint  of  ale  from  the  pub- 
lic-house, &c.,  &c.,  when  she  interrupted  me,  saying  with 
an  odd  expression  of  voice,  — 

"  You  are  satirical,  cozzie.  He's  not  the  worst  sort 
of  man  you've  just  described.  A  woman  might  be  very 
happy  with  him.  If  it  weren't  such  early  days,  I 
should  doubt  if  you  were  as  comfortable  as  you  would 
have  people  think ;  for  how  else  should  you  be  so  ill- 
natured  ?  " 

It  flashed  upon  me,  that,  without  the  least  intention, 
I  had  been  giving  a  very  fair  portrait  of  Mr.  Morley.  I 
felt  my  face  grow  as  red  as  fire. 

"  I  had  no  intention  of  being  satirical,  Judy,"  I  re- 
plied. "  I  was  only  describing  a  man  the  very  opposite 
of  my  husband." 

"You  don't  know  mine  yet,"  she  said.  "You  may 
think  "  — 

She  actually  broke  down  and  cried.  I  had  never  in 
my  life  seen  her  cry,  and  I  was  miserable  at  what  I 
had  done.  Here  was  a  nice  beginning  of  social  relations 
in  my  married  life  ! 

I  knelt  down,  put  my  arms  round  her,  and  looked 
up  in  her  face. 

"  Dear  Judy,"  I  said,  "  you  mistake  me  quite.  I 
never  thought  of  Mr.  Morley  when  I  said  that.  How 
should  I  have  dared  to  say  such  things  if  I  had  ?  He 
is  a  most  kind,  good  man,  and  papa  and  every  one  is 
glad  when  he  comes  to  see  us.  I  dare  say  he  does  like 
to  sleep  well,  —  I  know  Percivale  does  ;  and  I  don't 
doubt  he  likes  to  get  on  with  what  he's  at:  Percivale 
does,  for  he's  ever  so  much  better  company  when  he  has 
got  on  with  his  picture ;  and  I  know  he  likes  to  see  me 
well  dressed,  —  at   least  I  haven't  tried  him  with  any 


32  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

thing  else  yet,  for  I  have  plenty  of  clothes  for  a  while ; 
and  then  for  the  dinner,  which  I  believe  was  one  of 
the  points  in  the  description  I  gave,  I  wish  Percivale 
cared  a  little  more  for  his,  for  then  it  would  be  easier  to 
do  something  for  him.  As  to  the  newspaper,  tliere  I 
fear  I  must  give  him  up,  for  I  have  never  yet  seen  him 
witlj  one  in  his  hand.  He's  so  stupid  about  some 
things!" 

"  Oh,  you've  found  that  out !  have  you  ?  Men  are 
stupid ;  there's  no  doubt  of  that.  But  you  don't  know 
my  Walter  yet." 

I  looked  up,  and,  behold,  Percivale  was  in  the  room  ! 
His  face  wore  such  a  curious  expression  that  I  could 
hardly  help  laughing.  And  no  wonder  :  for  here  was  T 
on  my  knees,  clasping  my  first  visitor,  and  to  all  ap- 
pearance pouring  out  the  woes  of  my  wedded  life  in  her 
lap,  — woes  so  deep  that  they  drew  tears  from  her  as  she 
listened.  All  this  flashed  upon  me  as  I  started  to  my 
feet:  but  I  could  give  no  explanation  ;  I  could  only  make 
haste  to  introduce  my  husband  to  my  cousin  Judy. 

He  behaved,  of  course,  as  if  he  had  heard  nothing. 
But  I  fancy  Judy  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  awkward 
position,  for  she  plunged  into  the  affair  at  once. 

"  Plere  is  my  cousin,  Mr.  Percivale,  has  been  abusing 
my  husband  to  my  face,  calling  him  rich  and  stupid,  and 
I  don't  know  what  all.  I  confess  he  is  so  stupid  as 
to  be  very  fond  of  me,  but  that's  all  I  know  against 
him." 

And  her  handkerchief  went  once  more  to  her  eyes. 

"Dear  Judy!"  I  expostulated,  "you  know  I  didn't 
say  one  word  about  him." 

"  Of  course  I  do,  you  silly  coz ! "  she  cried,  and  burst 
out  laughing.  "  But  I  won't  forgive  you  except  you 
make  amends  by  dining  with  us  to-morrow." 

Thus  for  the  time  she  carried  it  off;  but  I  believe,  and 
have  since  had  good  reason  for  believing,  that  she  had 
reall}^ -mistaken  me  at  first,  and  been  much  annoyed. 

She  and  Percivale  got  on  very  well.  He  showed  her 
the  portrait  he  was  still  working  at,  —  even  accepted 
one  or  two  triHing  hints  as  to  the  likeness,  and  they 


TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  33 

parted  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  Glad  as  I  had 
been  to  see  her,  how  I  longed  to  see  the  last  of  her ! 
The  moment  she  was  gone,  I  threw  myself  into  his 
arms,  and  told  him  how  it  came  about.  He  laughed 
heartily. 

"I  tvas  a  little  puzzled,"  he  said,  "  to  hear  you  inform- 
ing a  lady  I  had  never  seen  that  I  was  so  very  stupid.'' 

"  But  I  wasn't  telling  a  story,  either,  for  jou  know  you 
are  ve-e-e-ry  stupid,  Percivale.  You  don't  know  a  leg 
from  a  shoulder  of  mutton,  and  you  can't  carve  a  bit. 
How  ever  you  can  draw  as  you  do,  is  a  marvel  to  me, 
when  you  know  nothing  about  the  shapes  of  things. 
It  was  very  wrong  to  say  it,  even  for  the  sake  of  cov- 
ering poor  Mrs.  Morley's  husband ;  but  it  was  quite  true 
you  know." 

"Perfectly  true,  my  love,"  he  said,  with  something 
else  where  I've  only  put  commas  ;  "  and  I  mean  to  re- 
main so,  in  order  that  you  may  always  have  something 
to  fall  back  upon  when  you  get  yourself  into  a  scrape 
by  forgetting  that  other  people  have  husbands  as  well 
as  you." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  GOOD    SOCIETY." 

We  had  agreed,  rather  against  the  inclination  of  both 
of  us,  to  dine  the  next  evening  with  the  Morlejs.  We 
should  have  preferred  our  own  society,  but  we  could 
not  refuse. 

''  They  will  be  talking  to  me  about  my  pictures,"  said 
my  husband,  "  and  that  is  just  what  I  hate.  People 
that  know  nothing  of  art,  that  can't  distinguish  purjjle 
from  black,  will  yet  parade  their  ignorance,  and  expect 
me  to  be  pleased." 

"  Mr.  Morley  is  a  well-bred  man,  Percivale,"  I  said. 

"That's  the  worst  of  it,  —  they  do  it  for  good  man- 
ners ;  I  know  the  kind  of  people  perfectly.  I  hate  to 
have  my  pictures  praised.  It  is  as  bad  as  talking  to 
one's  fiice  about  the  nose  upon  it." 

I  wonder  if  all  ladies  keep  their  husbands  waiting.  I 
did  that  night,  I  know,  and,  I  am  afraid,  a  good  many 
times  after,  —  not,  however,  since  Percivale  told  me  very 
seriously  that  being  late  for  dinner  was  the  only  fault 
of  mine  the  blame  of  which  he  would  not  take  on  his 
own  shoulders.  The  fact  on  this  occasion  was,  tliat  I 
could  not  get  my  hair  right.  It  was  the  first  time  I 
missed  what  I  had  been  used  to,  and  longed  for  the  deft 
fingers  of  my  mother's  maid  to  help  me.  When  I  told 
him  the  cause,  he  said  he  would  do  my  hair  for  me  next 
time,  if  I  would  teach  him  how.  But  I  have  managed 
very  well  since  without  either  him  or  a  lady's-maid. 

When  we  reached  Bolivar  Square,  we  found  the  com- 
pany waiting;  and,  as  if  for  a  rebuke  to  us,  the  butler 
announced  dinner  the  moment  we  entered.  I  was  seated 
between  Mr.  Morley  and  a  friend  of  his  who  took  me 
down,  Mr.  Baddeley,  a  portly  gentleman,  with  an  ex- 
34 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  35 

punse  of  snowy  shirt  from  which  flashed  three  diamond 
studs.  A  huge  gold  cliain  reposed  upon  his  front,  and 
on  his  finger  shone  a  brilliant  of  great  size.  Every 
thing  about  him  seemed  to  say,  "  Look  how  real  I  am  ! 
No  shoddy  about  me !  "  His  hands  were  plump  and 
white,  and  looked  as  if  they  did  not  know  what  dust 
was.  His  talk  sounded  very  rich,  and  yet  there  was  no 
pretence  in  it.  His  wife  looked  less  of  a  lady  than  he 
of  a  gentleman,  for  she  betrayed  conscious  importance. 
I  found  afterwards  that  he  was  the  only  son  of  a  rail- 
way contractor,  who  had  himself  handled  the  spade, 
but  at  last  died  enormously  rich.  He  spoke  blandly, 
but  with  a  certain  quiet  authority  which  I  disliked. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  the  opera,  Mrs.  Percivale  ? "  he 
asked  me  in  order  to  make  talk. 

"  I  have  never  been  to  the  opera,"  I  answered. 

"  Never  been  to  the  opera  ?     Ain't  you  fond  of  mu- 


sic 


9» 


"  Did  you  ever  know  a  lady  that  wasn't  ?  " 

"Then  you  must  go  to  the  opera." 

"  But  it  is  just  because  I  fancy  myself  fond  of  music 
that  I  don't  think  I  should  like  the  opera." 

"  You  can't  hear  such  music  anywhere  else." 

"  But  the  antics  of  the  singers,  pretending  to  be  in 
such  furies  of  passion,  yet  modulating  every  note  with 
the  cunning  of  a  carver  in  ivory,  seems  to  me  so  prepos- 
terous !  For  surely  song  springs  from  a  brooding  over 
past  feeling,  —  I  do  not  mean  lost  feeling  ;  never  from 
present  emotion." 

*'  Ah  !  you  would  change  your  mind  after  having  once 
been.  I  should  strongly  advise  you  to  go,  if  only  for 
once.     You  ought  now,  really." 

"An  artist's  wife  must  do  without  such  expensive 
amusements,  —  except  her  husband's  pictures  be  very 
popular  indeed.  I  might  as  well  cry  for  the  moon.  The 
cost  of  a  box  at  the  opera  for  a  single  night  would  keep 
my  little  household  for  a  fortnight." 

"  Ah,  well !  but  you  should  see  '  The  Barber,'  "  he  said. 

"  Perhaps  if  I  could  hear  without  seeing,  I  should  like 
it  better,"  I  answered. 


36  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

He  fell  silent,  busying  himself  with  his  fish,  and  when 
he  spoke  again  turned  to  the  lady  on  his  left.  I  went  on 
with  my  dinner.  I  knew  that  our  liost  had  heard  what 
I  said,  for  I  saw  him  turn  rather  hastily  to  his  butler. 

Mr.  Morley  is  a  man  diflScult  to  describe,  stiif  in  the 
back,  and  long  and  loose  in  the  neck,  reminding  me  of 
those  toy-birds  that  bob  head  and  tail  up  and  down  alter- 
nately. When  he  agrees  with  any  thing  you  say,  down 
comes  his  head  with  a  rectangular  nod;  when  he  does 
not  agree  with  you,  he  is  so  silent  and  motionless  that 
he  leaves  you  in  doubt  whether  he  has  heard  a  word  of 
what  you  have  been  saying.  His  face  is  hard,  and  was 
to  me  then  inscrutable,  while  what  he  said  always 
seemed  to  have  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  what  he 
was  thinking ;  and  I  had  not  then  learned  whether  he 
had  a  heart  or  not.  His  features  were  well  formed,  but 
they  and  his  head  and  face  too  small  for  his  body.  He 
seldom  smiled  except  when  in  doubt.  He  had,  I  under- 
stood, been  very  successful  in  business,  and  always 
looked  full  of  schemes. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  Academy  yet  ?  "  he  r.sked. 

"  No  ;  this  is  only  the  first  day  of  it." 

"  Are  your  husband's  pictures  well  hung  ?  " 

"  As  high  as  Haman,"  I  answered ;  "  skied,  in  fact. 
That  is  the  right  word,  I  believe." 

"I  would  advise  you  to  avoid  slang,  my  dear  cousin, 
— professlo7ial  slang  especially;  and  to  remember  that 
in  London  there  are  no  professions  after  six  o  clock." 

"  Indeed ! "  I  returned.  "  As  we  came  along  in  the 
carriage,  —  cabbage,  I  mean,  —  I  saw  no  end  of  shops 
open." 

"  I  mean  in  society,  —  at  dinner,  —  amongst  friends, 
you  know." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Morley,  you  have  just  done  asking  me 
about  my  husband's  j)ictures ;  and,  if  you  will  listen  a 
moment,  you  will  hear  that  lady  next  my  husband  talk- 
ing to  him  about  Leslie  and  Turner,  and  I  don't  know 
who  more,  —  all  in  the  trade." 

"Hush!  hush!  I  beg,"  he  almost  whispered,  looking 
agonized.    "  That's  Mrs.  Baddeley.     Her  husband,  next 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  37 

to  you,  is  a  great  picture-buyer.  That's  why  I  asked 
him  to  meet  you." 

"  I  thought  there  were  no  professions  in  London 
after  six  o'clock." 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  not  made  my  meaning  quite 
clear  to  you." 

"  Not  quite.     Yet  I  think  I  understand  you." 

"  We'll  have  a  talk  about  it  another  time." 

'•  With  pleasure." 

It  irritated  me  rather  that  he  should  talk  to  me,  a 
married  woman,  as  to  a  little  girl  who  did  not  know  how 
to  behave  herself;  but  his  patronage  of  my  husband 
displeased  me  far  more,  and  I  was  on  the  point  of  com- 
mitting the  terrible  blunder  of  asking  Mr.  Baddeley  if 
he  had  any  poor  relations  ;  but  I  checked  mj^self  iu 
time,  and  prayed  to  know  whether  he  was  a  member  of 
Parliament.  He  answered  that  he  was  not  in  the 
house  at  present,  and  asked  in  return  why  I  had  wished 
to  know.  I  answered  that  I  wanted  a  bill  brought 
in  for  the  punishment  of  fraudulent  milkmen  ;  for  I 
couldn't  get  a  decent  pennyworth  of  milk  in  all  Cam- 
den Town.  He  laughed,  and  said  it  would  be  a  very  de- 
sirable measure,  only  too  great  an  interference  with  the 
liberty  of  the  subject.  I  told  him  that  kind  of  liberty 
was  just  what  law  in  general  owed  its  existence  to,  and 
was  there  on  purpose  to  interfere  with  ;  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  see  it. 

The  fact  is,  I  was  very  silly.  Proud  of  being  tho 
wife  of  an  artist,  I  resented  the  social  injustice  which  1 
thought  gave  artists  no  place  but  one  of  sufferance. 
Proud  also  of  being  poor  for  Perci vale's  sake,  I  made  a 
show  of  my  poverty  before  people  whom  I  supposed, 
rightly  enough  in  many  cases,  to  be  proud  of  their 
riches.  But  I  knew  nothing  of  what  poverty  really 
meant,  and  was  as  yet  only  playing  at  being  poor  ;  cher- 
ishing a  foolish,  though  unacknowledged  notion  of  pro- 
tecting my  husband's  poverty  with  the  segis  of  my  posi- 
tion as  the  daughter  of  a  man  of  consequence  in  his 
3ounty.  I  was  thus  wronging  the  dignity  of  my  hus- 
Dand's  position,  and  complimenting  wealth  by  making 


38  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

so  much  of  its  absence.  Poverty  or  wealth  ought  to 
have  been  in  my  eyes  such  a  trifle  that  I  never  tliought 
of  publisliing  whether  I  was  rich  or  poor.  I  ought  to 
have  taken  my  position  without  wasting  a  thought  on 
what  it  might  appear  in  the  eyes  of  those  about  me, 
meeting  them  on  the  mere  level  of  humanit}'-,  and  leav- 
ing them  to  settle  with  themselves  how  they  were  to 
think  of  me,  and  where  they  were  to  place  me.  I  sus- 
pect also,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  that  I  looked  down 
upon  my  cousin  Judy  because  she  had  a  mere  man  of 
business  for  her  husband ;  forgetting  that  our  Lord  had 
found  a  collector  of  conquered  taxes, — a  man,  I  pre- 
sume, with  little  enough  of  the  artistic  about  him,  —  one 
of  tlie  fittest  in  his  nation  to  bear  the  message  of  his 
redemption  to  the  hearts  of  his  countrj^men.  It  is  his 
loves  and  his  hopes,  not  his  visions  and  intentions,  by 
which  a  man  is  to  be  judged.  My  father  had  taught 
me  all  this ;  but  I  did  not  understand  it  then,  nor  until 
years  after  I  had  left  him. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Percivale  a  lady  of  fortune  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Baddeley  of  my  cousin  Judy  when  we  were  gone,  for 
we  were  the  first  to  leave. 

"  Certainly  not.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  "  she  returned. 

"Because,  from  her. talk,  I  thought  she  must  be,"  he 
answered. 

Cousin  Judy  told  me  this  the  next  day,  and  I  could 
see  she  thought  I  had  been  bragging  of  my  family. 
So  I  recounted  all  the  conversation  I  had  had  with  him, 
as  nearly  as  I  could  recollect,  and  set  down  the  question 
to  an  impertinent  irony.  But  I  have  since  changed  my 
mind  :  I  now  judge  that  he  could  not  believe  any  poor 
persoii  would  joke  about  poverty.  I  never  found  one  of 
those  people  who  go  about  begging  for  charities  believe 
me  when  I  told  him  the  simple  truth  that  I  could  not 
aftbrd  to  subscribe.  None  but  a  rich  person,  they  seem 
to  think,  would  dare  such  an  excuse,  and  that  only  in 
the  just  expecitation  that  its  very  assertion  must  render 
it  incredible. 


.     CHAPTER  VI. 

A  REFUGE   FROM   THE   HEAT. 

There  was  a  little  garden,  one  side  enclosed  by  tlie 
house,  another  by  the  studio,  and  the  remaining  two  by 
walls,  evidently  built  for  the  nightly  convenience  of 
promenading  cats.  There  was  one  pear-tree  in  the 
grass-plot  which  occupied  the  centre,  and  a  few  small 
fruit-trees,  which,  I  may  now  safely  say,  never  bore  any 
thing,  upon  the  walls.  But  the  last  occupant  had  cared 
for  his  garden  ;  and,  when  I  came  to  the  cottage,  it  was, 
although  you  would  hardly  believe  it  now  that  my  gar- 
den is  inside  the  house,  a  pretty  little  spot,  —  only,  if 
you  stop  thinking  about  a  garden,  it  begins  at  once  to 
go  to  the  bad.  Used  although  I  had  been  to  great  wide 
lawns  and  park  and  gardens  and  wilderness,  the  tiny 
enclosure  soon  became  to  me  the  type  of  the  boundless 
universe.  The  streets  roared  about  me  with  ugly  omni- 
buses and  uglier  cabs,  fine  carriages,  huge  earth-shaking 
drays,  and,  worse  far,  with  the  cries  of  all  the  tribe  of 
costermongers,  —  one  especially  offensive  which  soon  be- 
gan to  haunt  me.  I  almost  hated  the  man  who  sent  it 
forth  to  fill  the  summer  air  with  disgust.  He  always 
put  his  hollowed  hand  to  his  jaw,  as  if  it  were  loose  and 
he  had  to  hold  it  in  its  place,  before  he  uttered  his  hid- 
eous howl,  which  would  send  me  hurrying  up  the  stairs 
to  bury  my  head  under  all  the  pillows  of  my  bed  until, 
coming  back  across  the  wilderness  of  streets  and  lanes 
like  the  cry  of  a  jackal  growing  fainter  and  fainter  upon 
the  wind,  it  should  pass,  and  die  away  in  the  distance. 
Suburban  London,  I  say,  was  roaring  about  me,  and  I 
was  confined  to  a  few  square  yards  of  grass  and  gravel- 
walk  and  flower-plot ;  but  above  was  the  depth  of  the 

39 


40  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

sky,  and  thence  at  niglit  the  hosts  of  heaven  looked  in 
upon  me  with  tlie  same  cahn  assured  glance  with  which 
they  shone  upon  southern  forests,  swarming  with  great 
butterflies  and  creatures  that  go  flaming  through  the 
tropic  darkness ;  and  there  the  moon  would  come,  and 
cast  her  lovely  sliadows;  and  there  was  room  enough  to 
feel  alone  and  to  try  to  pray.  And  what  was  strange, 
the  room  seemed  greater,  though  the  loneliness  was  gone, 
when  my  husband  walked  up  and  down  in  it  with  me. 
True,  the  greater  part  of  the  walk  seemed  to  be  the 
turnings,  for  they  always  came  just  when  you  wanted 
to  go  on  and  on ;  but,  even  with  the  scope  of  the  world 
for  your  walk,  you  must,  turn  and  come  back  some  time. 
At  first,  when  he  was  smoking  his  great  brown  meer- 
schaum, he  and  I  would  walk  in  opposite  directions, 
passing  each  other  in  the  middle,  and  so  make  the  space 
double  the  size,  for  he  had  all  the  garden  to  himself,  and 
I  had  it  all  to  myself;  and  so  I  had  his  garden  and 
mine  too.  That  is  how  by  degrees  I  got  able  to  bear  the 
smoke  of  tobacco,  for  I  had  never  been  used  to  it,  and 
found  it  a  small  trial  at  first ;  but  now  I  have  got  ac- 
tually to  like  it,  and  greet  a  stray  whiff  from  the  study 
like  a  message  from  my  husband.  I  fancy  I  could  tell 
the  smoke  of  that  old  black  and  red  meerschaum  from 
the  smoke  of  any  other  pipe  in  creation. 

"  You  ')nust  cure  him  of  that  bad  habit,"  said  cousin 
Judy  to  me  once. 

It  made  me  angry.  What  right  had  she  to  call  any 
thing  my  husband  did  a  bad  habit  ?  and  to  expect  me 
to  agree  with  her  was  ten  times  worse.  I  am  saving  my 
money  now  to  buy  him  a  grand  new  pipe ;  and  I  may 
just  mention  here,  that  once  I  spent  ninepence  out  of 
my  last  shilling  to  get  him  a  packet  of  Bristol  bird's-eye, 
for  he  was  on  the  point  of  giving  up  smoking  altogether 
because  of —  well,  because  of  what  will  appear  by  and  by. 

England  is  getting  dreadfully  crowded  with  mean, 
ugly  houses.  If  they  were  those  of  the  poor  and  strug- 
gling, and  not  of  the  rich  and  comfortable,  one  might 
be  consoled.  But  rich  barbarism,  in  the  shape  of  ugli- 
ness, is  again  pushing  us  to  the  sea.     There,  however, 


TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  41 

its  "  control  stops ;  "  and  since  I  lived  in  London  the  sea 
has  grown  more  precious  to  me  than  it  was  even  in 
those  lovely  days  at  Kilkhaven,  —  merely  because  no 
one  can  build  upon  it.  Ocean  and  sky  remain  as  God 
made  them..  He  must  love  space  for  us,  though  it  be 
needless  for  himself;  seeing  that  in  all  the  magnificent 
notions  of  creation  afforded  us  by  astronomers,  —  shoal 
upon  shoal  of  suns,  each  the  centre  of  complicated  and 
infinitely  varied  systems, — the  spaces  between  are  yet 
more  overwhelming  in  their  vast  inconceivableness.  I 
thank  God  for  the  room  he  thus  gives  us,  and  hence  can 
endure  to  see  the  fair  face  of  his  England  disfigured  by 
the  mud-pies  of  his  children. 

There  was  in  the  garden  a  little  summer-house,  of 
which  I  was  fond,  chiefly  because,  knowing  my  passion 
for  the  flower,  Percivale  had  surrounded  it  with  a  mul- 
titude of  sweet  peas,  which,  as  they  grew,  he  had 
trained  over  the  trellis-work  of  its  sides.  Through  them 
filtered  the  sweet  airs  of  the  summer  as  through  an 
JEiOlv^n  harp  of  unheard  harmonies.  To  sit  there  in  a 
warm  evening,  when  the  moth-airs  just  woke  and  gave 
two  or  three  wafts  of  their  wings  and  ceased,  was  like 
sitting  in  the  midst  of  a  small  gospel. 

The  summer  had  come  on,  and  the  days  were  very 
hot,  —  so  hot  and  changeless,  with  their  unclouded  skies 
and  their  glowing  centre,  that  they  seemed  to  grow  stu- 
pid with  their  own  heat.  It  was  as  if  —  like  a  hen 
brooding  over  her  chickens — the  day,  brooding  over  its 
coming  harvests,  grew  dull  and  sleepy,  living  only  in 
what  was  to  come.  Notwithstanding  the  feelings  I  have 
just  recorded,  I  began  to  long  for  a  wider  horizon, 
whence  some  wind  might  come  and  blow  upon  me,  and 
wake  me  up,  not  merely  to  live,  but  to  know  that  I 
lived. 

One  afternoon  I  left  my  little  summer-seat,  where  I 
had  been  sitting  at  work,  and  went  through  the  house, 
and  down  the  precipice,  into  my  husband's  study. 

"  It  is  so  hot,"  I  said,  "  I  will  try  my  little  grotto :  it 
may  be  cooler." 

He  opened  the  door  for  me,  and,  with    his  palette   on 


42  TUE   VICAR'S  DAUGUTER. 

his  tbumb,  and  a  brush  in  his  hand,  sat  down  for' a  mo- 
ment beside  me. 

"  This  heat  is  too  much  for  you,  darling,"  he  said. 

"  I  do  feel  it.  I  wish  I  could  get  from  the  garden 
into  my  nest  without  going  up  through  the  house  and 
down  the  Jacob's  ladder,"  I  said.  "  It  is  so  hot !  I 
never  felt  heat  like  it  before." 

He  sat  silent  for  a  while,  and  then  said,  — 

"  I've  been  thinking  I  must  get  you  into  the  country 
for  a  few  weeks.     It  would  do  you  no  end  of  good." 

"  I  suppose  the  wind  does  blow  somewhere,"  I  re- 
turned.    "But"  — 

"  You  don't  want  to  leave  me  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  don't.  And  I  know  with  that  ugly  portrait  on 
hand  you  can't  go  with  me." 

He  happened  to  be  painting  the  portrait  of  a  plain 
red-faced  lady,  in  a  delicate  lace  cap,  —  a  very  unfit  sub- 
ject for  art,  —  much  needing  to  be  made  over  again 
first,  it  seemed  to  me.  Only  there  she  was,  with  a  right 
to  have  her  portrait  painted  if  she  wished  it;  and  there 
was  Percivale,  with  time  on  his  hands,  and  room  in  his 
pockets,  and  the  faith  that  whatever  God  had  thought 
worth  making  could  not  be  unworthy  of  representation. 
Hence  he  had  willingly  undertaken  a  likeness  of  her,  to 
be  finished  within  a  certain  time,  and  was  now  working 
at  it  as  conscientiously  as  if  it  had  been  the  portrait  of 
a  lovely  young  duchess  or  peasant-girl.  I  was  only 
afraid  he  would  make  it  too  like  to  please  the  lady 
herself.  His  time  was  now  getting  short,  and  he  could 
not  leave  home  before  fulfilling  his  engagement. 

"But,"  he  returned,  "why  shouldn't  you  go  to  the 
Hall  for  a  week  or  two  without  me  ?  I  will  take  you 
down,  and  come  and  fetch  j'ou." 

"  I'm  so  stupid  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me  !  "  I  said. 

I  did  not  in  the  least  believe  it,  and  yet  was  on  the 
edge  of  crying,  which  is  not  a  habit  with  me. 

''  You  know  better  than  that,  my  Wynnie,"  he  an- 
swered gravely.  "  You  want  your  mother  to  comfort 
you.  And  there  must  be  some  air  in  tlie  country.  So 
tell  Sarali  to  put  up  your  things,  and  I'll  take  you  down 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  43 

to-morrow  morning.  When  I  get  this  portrait  done,  I 
will  come  and  stay  a  few  days,  if  they  will  have  me, 
and  then  take  you  home." 

The  thought  of  seeing  my  mother  and  my  father, 
ard  the  old  place,  came  over  me  with  a  rush.  I  felt  all 
at  once  as  if  I  had  been  absent  for  years  instead  of 
weeks.  I  cried  in  earnest  now, —  with  delight  though, — 
and  there  is  no  shame  in  that.  So  it  was  all  arranged ; 
and  next  afternoon  I  was  lying  on  a  couch  in  the  yel- 
low drawing-room,  with  my  mother  seated  beside  me, 
and  Connie  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  open  window, 
through  which  came  everj'^  now  and  then  such  a  sweet 
wave  of  air  as  bathed  me  with  hope,  and  seemed  to  wash 
all  the  noises,  even  the  loose-jawed  man's  hateful  howl, 
from  my  brain. 

Yet,  glad  as  I  was  to  be  once  more  at  home,  I  felt, 
when  Percivale  left  me  the  next  morning  to  return  by 
a  third-class  train  to  his  ugly  portrait,  — for  the  lady  was 
to  sit  to  him  that  same  afternoon, — that  the  idea  of 
home  was  already  leaving  Oldcastle  Hall,  and  flitting 
back  to  the  suburban  cottage  haunted  by  the  bawling 
voice  of  the  costermonger. 

But  I  soon  felt  better :  for  here  there  was  plenty  of 
shadow,  and  in  the  hottest  days  m}'  father  could  always 
tell  where  any  wind  would  be  stirring;  for  he  knew 
every  out  and  in  of  the  place  like  his  own  pockets,  as 
Dora  said,  who  took  a  little  after  cousin  Judy  in  her 
way.  It  will  give  a  notion  of  his  tenderness  if  I  set 
down  just  one  tiniest  instance  of  his  attention  to  me. 
The  forenoon  was  oppressive.  I  was  sitting  under  a 
tree,  trying  to  read  when  he  came  up  to  me.  There 
was  a  wooden  gate,  with  open  bars  near.  He  went  and 
set  it  wide,  saying,  — 

"  There,  my  love  !  You  will  fancy  yourself  cooler  if 
I  leave  the  gate  open." 

Will  my  reader  laugh  at  me  for  mentioning  such  a 
trifle  ?  I  think  not,  for  it  went  deep  to  my  heart,  and 
1  seemed  to  know  God  better  for  it  ever  after.  -A  fatlier 
is  a  great  and  marvellous  truth,  and  one  you  can  never 
get  at  the  depth  of,  try  how  you  may.  , 


44  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

Then  my  mother !  She  was,  if  possihle,  yet  more  to 
me  than  my  father.  I  could  tell  her  any  thing  and 
every  thing  without  fear,  while  I  confess  to  a  little  dread 
of  my  father  still.  He  is  too  like  my  own  conscience  to 
allow  of  my  being  quite  confident  with  him.  But  Con- 
nie is  just  as  comfortable  with  him  as  I  am  with  my 
mother.  If  in  my  childhood  I  was  ever  tempted  to 
conceal  any  thing  from  her,  the  very  thought  of  it  made 
me  miserable  until  I  had  told  her.  And  now  she  would 
watch  me  with  her  gentle,  dove-like  eyes,  and  seemed 
to  know  at  once,  without  being  told,  what  was  the  mat- 
ter with  me.  She  never  asked  me  what  I  should  like, 
but  went  and  brought  something  ;  and,  if  she  saw  that  I 
didn't  care  for  it,  wouldn't  press  me,  or  offer  any  thing 
instead,  but  chat  for  a  minute  or  two,  carry  it  away,  and 
return  with  something  else.  My  heart  was  like  to 
break  at  times  with  the  swelling  of  the  love  that  was 
in  it.  My  eldest  child,  my  Ethelwyn,  —  for  my  hus- 
band would  have  her  called  the  same  name  as  me,  only 
I  insisted  it  should  be  after  my  mother  and  not  after 
me,  —  has  her  very  eyes,  and  for  years  has  been  trying 
to  mother  me  over  again  to  the  best  of  her  sweet  ability. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CONNIE. 

It  is  high  time,  though,  that  I  dropped  writing  about 
myself  for  a  while.  I  don't  find  my  self  so  interesting 
as  it  used  to  be. 

The  worst  of  some  hinds  especially  of  small  illnesses 
is,  that  they  make  you  think  a  great  deal  too  much 
about  3'^ourself.  Connie's,  which  was  a  great  and  terri- 
ble one,  never  made  her  do  so.  She  was  always  forget- 
ting herself  in  her  interest  about  others.  I  think  I  was 
made  more  selfish  to  begin  with  ;  and  yet  I  have  a  hope 
that  a  too-much-thinking  about  yourself  may  not  always 
be  pure  selfishness.  It  may  be  something  else  wrong  in 
you  that  makes  you  uncomfortable,  and  keeps  drawing 
your  eyes  towards  the  aching  place.  I  will  hope  so  till 
I  get  rid  of  the  whole  business,  and  then  I  shall  not  care 
much  how  it  came  or  what  it  was. 

Connie  was  now  a  thin,  pale,  delicate-looking  —  not 
handsome,  but  lovely  girl.  Her  eyes,  some  people  said, 
were  too  big  for  her  face  ;  but  that  seemed  to  me  no 
more  to  the  discredit  of  her  beauty  than  it  would  have 
been  a  reproach  to  say  that  her  soul  was  too  big  for  her 
body.  She  had  been  early  ripened  by  the  hot  sun  of 
suffering,  and  the  self-restraint  which  pain  had  taught 
her.  Patience  had  mossed  her  over,  and  made  her 
warm  and  soft  and  sweet.  She  never  looked  for  atten- 
tion, but  accepted  all  that  was  offered  with  a  smile 
wliich  seemed  to  say,  "  It  is  more  than  I  need,  but  you 
are  so  good  I  mustn't  spoil  it."  She  was  not  confined 
to  her  sofa  now,  though  she  needed  to  lie  down  often, 
but  could  walk  about  pretty  well,  only  you  must  give 
her  time.     You  could  always  make  her  merry  by  saying 

45 


46  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

she  walked  like  an  old  woman ;  and  it  was  the  only 
way  we  could  get  rid  of  the  sadness  of  seeing  it.  We 
betook  ourselves  to  her  to  laugh  her  sadness  away  from 
us. 

Once,  as  I  lay  on  a  couch  on  the  lawn,  she  came 
towards  me  carrying  a  bunch  of  grapes  from  the  green- 
house, —  a  great  bunch,  each  individual  grape  ready  to 
burst  with  the  sunlight  it  had  bottled  up  in  its  swollen 
purple  skin. 

"  They  are  too  heavy  for  you,  old  lady,"  I  cried. 

"  Yes ;  I  avi  an  old  lady,"  she  answered.  *'  Think 
what  good  use  of  my  time  I  have  made  compared  with 
you  !  I  have  got  ever  so  far  before  you :  I've  nearly 
forgotten  how  to  walk  ! " 

The  tears  gathered  in  my  eyes  as  she  left  me  with 
the  bunch ;  for  how  could  one  help  being  sad  to  think 
of  the  time  when  she  used  to  bound  like  a  fawn  over  the 
grass,  her  slender  figure  borne  like  a  feather  on  its  own 
slight  yet  firm  muscles,  which  used  to  knot  so  much 
harder  than  any  of  ours.  She  turned  to  say  something, 
and,  perceiving  my  emotion,  came  slowly  back. 

"  Dear  Wynnie,"  she  said,  "  you  wouldn't  have  me 
back  with  my  old  foolishness,  would  you  ?  Believe  me, 
life  is  ten  times  more  precious  than  it  was  before.  I  feel 
and  enjoy  and  love  so  much  more  !  I  don't  know  how 
often  I  thank  God  for  what  befell  me." 

I  could  only  smile  an  answer,  unable  to  speak,  not 
now  from  pity,  but  from  shame  of  my  own  petulant  rest- 
lessness and  impatient  helplessness. 

I.  believe  she  had  a  special  affection  for  poor  Sprite, 
the  pony  which  threw  her, — special,  I  mean,  since  the 
accident,  —  regarding  him  as  in  some  sense  the  ange*l 
which  had  driven  her  out  of  paradise  into  a  better 
world.  If  ever  he  got  loose,  and  Connie  was  anywhere 
about,  he  was  sure  to  find  her :  he  was  an  omnivorous 
animal,  and  she  had  always  something  he  would  eat 
when  his  favorite  apples  were  unattainable.  More  than 
once  she  had  been  roused  from  her  sleep  on  the  lawn  by 
the  lips  and  the  breath  of  Sprite  upon  her  face ;  but, 
although  one  painful  sign  of  her  weakness  was,  that  she 


TUE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  47 

started  at  the  least  noise  or  sudden  discovery  of  a  pres- 
ence, slie  never  started  at  the  most  unexpected  intrusion 
of  Sprite,  any  more  than  at  the  voice  of  my  father  or 
mother.  Need  I  say  there  was  one  more  whose  voice  or 
presence  never  startled  her  ? 

The  relation  between  them  was  lovely  to  see.  Tur- 
ner was  a  fine,  healthy,  broad-shouldered  fellow,  of  bold 
carriage  and  frank  manners,  above  the  middle  height, 
with  rather  large  features,  keen  black  eyes,  and  great 
personal  strength.  Yet  to  such  a  man,  poor  little  wan- 
faced,  big-eyed  Connie  assumed  imperious  airs,  mostly, 
but  perhaps  not  entirely,  for  the  fun  of  it;  while  he 
looked  only  enchanted  every  time  she  honored  him  with 
a  little  tyranny. 

"  There  !  I'm  tired,"  she  would  say,  holding  out  her 
arms  like  a  baby.     "  Carry  me  in." 

And  the  great  strong  man  would  stoop  with  a  wor- 
shipping look  in  his  eyes,  and,  taking  her  carefully, 
would  carry  her  in  as  lightly  and  gently  and  steadily  as 
if  she  had  been  but  the  baby  whose  manners  she  had 
for  the  moment  assumed.  This  began,  of  course,  when 
she  was  unable  to  walk  ;  but  it  did  not  stop  then,  for  she 
would  occasionally  tell  liim  to  carry  her  after  she  was 
quite  capable  of  crawling  at  least.  They  had  now  been 
engaged  for  some  months ;  and  before  me,  as  a  newly- 
married  woman,  they  did  not  mind  talking  a  little. 

One  day  she  was  lying  on  a  rug  on  the  lawn,  with 
him  on  the  grass  beside  her,  leaning  on  his  elbow,  and 
looking  down  into  her  sky-like  eyes.  She  lifted  her 
hand,  and  stroked  his  mustache  with  a  forefinger,  while 
he  kept  as  still  as  a  statue,  or  one  who  fears  to  scare  tho 
bird  that  is  picking  up  the  crumbs  at  his  feet. 

"  Poor,  poor  man ! "  she  said ;  and  from  the  tone  I 
knew  the  tears  had  begun  to  gather  in  those  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  pity  me,  Connie  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because  you  will  have  such  a  wretched  little  crea- 
ture for  a  wife  some  day,  —  or  perhaps  never,  —  which 
would  be  best  after  all." 

He  answered  cheerily. 

"  If  you  will  kindly  allow  me  my  choice,  I  prefer 


48  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

just  such  a  wretched  little  creature  to  any  one  else  in 
the  world." 

"  And  why,  pray  ?  Give  a  good  reason,  and  I  will  for- 
give your  bad  taste." 

"  Because  she  won't  be  able  to  hurt  me  much  when 
she  beats  me." 

"  A  better  reason,  or  she  will." 

"  Because  I  can  punish  her  if  she  isn't  good  by  tak- 
ing her  up  in  my  arms,  and  carrying  her  about  until  she 
gives  in." 

"  A  better  reason,  or  I  shall  be  naughty  directly." 

"  Because  I  shall  always  know  where  to  find  her." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  she  must  leave  you  to  find  her.  But  that's 
a  silly  reason.  If  you  don't  give  me  a  better,  I'll  get 
up  and  walk  into  the  house." 

"  Because  there  won't  be  any  waste  of  me.  Will  that 
do?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked,  with  mock  impe- 
riousness. 

"  I  mean  that  I  shall  be  able  to  lay  not  only  my  heart 
but  my  brute  strength  at  her  feet.  I  shall  bo  allowed 
to  be  her  heast  of  burden,  to  carry  her  whither  she 
would;  and  so  with  my  body  her  to  worship  more  than 
most  husbands  have  a  chance  of  worshipping  their 
wives." 

"  There  !  take  me,  take  me  !  "  she  said,  stretching  up 
her  arms  to  him.  "  How  good  you  are !  I  don't  de- 
serve such  a  great  man  one  bit.  But  I  will  love  him. 
Take  me  directly ;  for  there's  Wynnie  listening  to  every 
word  we  say  to  each  other,  and  laughing  at  us.  She  can 
laugh  without  looking  like  it." 

The  fact  is,  I  was  crying,  and  the  creature  knew  it. 
Turner  brought  her  to  me,  and  held  her  down  for  me 
to  ki3s ;  then  carried  her  in  to  her  mother. 

I  believe  the  county  people  round  considered  our  fam- 
ily far  gone  on  the  inclined  plane  of  degeneracy.  First 
my  mother,  the  heiress,  had  married  a  clergyman  of  no 
high  family ;  then  they  had  given  their  eldest  daughter 
to  a  poor  artist,  something  of  the  same  standing  as  — 
well,  I  will  be  rude  to  no  order  of  humanity,  and  there- 


W^ 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  49 

fore  avoid  comparisons  ;  and  now  it  was  generally  known 
tliat  Connie  was  engaged  to  a  country  practitioner,  a 
man  who  made  up  his  own  prescriptions.  We  talked 
and  laughed  over  certain  remarks  of  the  kind  that 
reached  us,  and  compared  our  two  with  the  gentlemen 
about  us,  —  in  no  way  to  the  advantage  of  any  of  the  lat- 
ter, you  may  be  sure.  It  was  silly  work ;  but  we  were 
only  two  loving  girls,  with  the  best  possible  reasons  for 
being  proud  of  the  men  who  had  honored  us  with  their 
love. 


^ 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Connie's  baby. 

It  is  time  I  told  my  readers  something  about  the  lit- 
tle Theodora.  She  was  now  nearly  four  years  old  I 
think,  —  a  dark-skinned,  lithe-limbed,  wild  little  crea- 
ture, very  pretty,  —  at  least  most  people  said  so,  while 
others  insisted  that  she  had  a  common  look.  I  admit 
she  was  not  like  a  lady's  child  —  only  one  has  seen 
ladies'  children  look  common  enough ;  neither  did  she 
look  like  the  child  of  working  people  —  though  amongst 
such,  again,  one  sees  sometimes  a  child  the  oldest  family 
in  England  might  be  proud  of.  The  fact  is,  she  had  a 
certain  tinge  of  the  savage  about  her,  specially  manifest 
in  a  certain  furtive  look  of  her  black  eyes,  with  which 
she  seemed  now  and  then  to  be  measuring  you,  and  her 
prospects  in  relation  to  you.  I  have  seen  the  child  of 
cultivated  parents  sit  and  stare  at  a  stranger  from  her 
stool  in  the  most  persistent  manner,  never  withdrawing 
her  eyes,  as  if  she  would  pierce  to  his  soul,  and  under- 
stand by  very  force  of  insight  whether  he  was  or  was 
not  one  to  be  honored  with  her  confidence  ;  and  I  have 
often  seen  the  side-long  glance  of  sly  merriment,  or  lov- 
ing shyness,  o'r  small  coquetry ;  but  I  have  never,  in 
any  other  child,  seen  that  look  of  self-protective  specula- 
tion ;  and  it  used  to  make  me  uneasy,  for  of  course,  like 
every  one  else  in  the  house,  I  loved  the  child.  She  was 
a  wayward,  often  unmanageable  creature,  but  affection- 
ate,—  sometimes  after  an  insane,  or,  at  least,  very  ape- 
like fashion.  Every  now  and  tlien  she  would  take  an 
unaccountable  preference  for  some  one  of  the  family  or 
household,  at  one  time  for  the  old  housekeeper,  at  an- 
other for  the  stable-boy,  at  another  for  one  of  us ;  in 

60 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  51 

which  fits  of  partiality  she  would  always  turn  a  blind 
and  deaf  side  upon  every  one  else,  actually  seeming  to 
imagine  she  showed  the  strength  of  her  love  to  the  one 
by  the  paraded  exclusion  of  the  others.  I  cannot  tell 
how  much  of  this  was  natural  to  her,  and  how  much  the 
re.-.alt  of  the  foolish  and  injurious  jealousy  of  the  ser- 
vants. I  say  servants,  because  I  know  such  an  influen- 
cing was  all  but  impossible  in  the  family  itself.  If  my 
father  heard  any  one  utter  such  a  phrase  as  ''  Don't  you 
love  me  best?" — or,  ''better  than"  such  a  one?  or, 
"  Ain't  I  your  favorite  ?  "  —  well,  you  all  know  my  father, 
and  know  him  really,  for  he  never  wrote  a  word  he  did 
not  believe  —  but  you  would  have  been  astonished,  I 
venture  to  think,  and  perhaps  at  first  bewildered  as  well, 
by  the  look  of  indignation  flashed  from  his  eyes.  He 
was  not  the  gentle,  all-excusing  man  some  readers,  I 
know,  fancy  him  from  his  writings.  He  was  gentle  even 
to  tenderness  when  he  had  time  to  think  a  moment,  and 
in  an}'  quiet  judgment  he  always  took  as  much  the  side 
of  the  offender  as  was  possible  witli  any  likelih.ood  of 
justice;  but  in  the  first  moments  of  contact  with  what 
he  thought  bad  in  principle,  and  that  in  the  smallest 
trifle,  he  would  speak  words  that  made  even  those  who 
were  not  included  in  the  condemnation  tremble  with 
sympathetic  fear.  "  There,  Harry,  you  take  it  —  quick, 
or  Charley  will  have  it,"  said  the  nurse  one  day,  little 
thinking  who  overheard  her.  "  Woman !  "  cried  a  voice 
of  wrath  from  the  corridor,  "  do  you  know  what  you  are 
doing  ?  Would  you  make  him  twofold  more  the  child 
of  hell  than  yourself?  "  An  hour  after,  she  was  sent 
for  to  the  study ;  and  when  she  came  out  her  eyes  were 
very  red.  My  father  was  unusually  silent  at  dinner; 
and,  after  the  younger  ones  were  gone,  he  turned  to  my 
mother,  and  said,  "  Ethel,  I  spoke  the  truth.  All  that 
is  of  the  Devil,  —  horribly  bad  ;  and  yet  I  am  more  to 
blame  in  my  condemnation  of  them  than  she  for  the 
words  themselves.  The  thought  of  so  polluting  the 
mind  of  a  child  makes  me  fierce,  and  the  wrath  of  man 
worketh  not  the  righteousness  of  God.  The  old  Adam 
is  only  too  glad  to  get  a  word  in,  if  even  in  behalf  of 


52  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

his  supplanting  successor."  Then  he  rose,  and,  taking 
my  motlier  by  the  arm,  walked  away  with  her.  I  con- 
fess I  honored  him  for  his  self-condemnation  the  most. 
I  must  add  that  the  offending  nurse  had  been  ten  years 
in  the  famih'-,  and  ought  to  have  known  better. 

But  to  return  to  Theodora.  She  was  subject  to  at- 
tacks of  the  most  furious  passion,  especially  when  any 
thing  occurred  to  thwart  the  indulgence  of  the  epheme- 
ral partialit}'  I  have  just  described.  Then,  wherever  she 
was,  she  would  throw  herself  down  at  once,  —  on  the 
floor,  on  the  walk  or  lawn,  or,  as  happened  on  one  occa- 
sion, in  the  water,  —  and  kick  and  scream.  At  such 
times  she  cared  nothing  even  for  my  father,  of  whom 
generally  she  stood  in  considerable  awe,  —  a  feeling  he 
rather  encouraged.  "She  has  plenty  of  people  about 
her  to  represent  the  gospel,"  he  said  once.  "I  will 
keep  the  department  of  the  law,  without  which  she  will 
never  appreciate  the  gospel.  M^^  part  will,  I  trust, 
vanish  in  due  time,  and  the  law  turn  out  to  have  been, 
after  all,  only  the  imperfect  gospel,  just  as  the  leaf  is 
the  imperfect  flower.  But  the  gospel  is  no  gospel  till  it 
gets  into  the  heart,  and  it  sometimes  wants  a  torpedo  to 
blow  the  gates  of  that  open."  For  no  torpedo  or  Krupp 
gun,  however,  did  Theodora  care  at  such  times;  and, 
after  repeated  experience  of  the  inefiicacy  of  coaxing,  my 
father  gave  orders,  that,  when  a  fit  occurred,  every  one, 
without  exception,  should  not  merely  leave  her  alone, 
but  go  out  of  sight,  and  if  possible  out  of  hearing,  —  at 
least  out  of  her  hearing  —  that  she  might  know  she  had 
driven  her  friends  far  from  her,  and  be  brought  to  a 
sense  of  loneliness  and  need.  I  am  pretty  sure  that 
if  she  had  been  one  of  us,  that  is,  one  of  his  own,  he 
would  have  taken  sharper  measures  with  her;  but  he 
said  we  must  never  attempt  to  treat  oth»r  people's  chil- 
dren as  our  own,  for  they  are  not  our  own.  We  did  not 
love  them  enough,  he  said,  to  make  severity  safe  either 
for  them  or  for  us. 

The  plan  worked  so  far  well,  that  after  a  time,  varied 
in  length  according  to  causes  inscrutable,  she  would 
always  re-appear  smiling ;  but,  as  to  any  conscience  of 


TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  53 

wrong,  she  seemed  to  have  no  more  than  Nature  herself, 
who  looks  out  with  her  smiling  face  after  hours  o^ 
thunder,  lightning,  and  rain  ;  and,  although  this  treat- 
ment brought  her  out  of  them  sooner,  the  fits  them- 
selves came  quite  as  frequently  as  before. 

But  she  had  another  habit,  more  alarming,  and  more 
troublesome  as  well:  she  would  not  unfrequently  vanish, 
and  have  to  be  long  sought,  for  in  such  case  she  never  re- 
appeared of  herself  What  made  it  so  alarming  was 
tbat  there  were  dangerous  places  about  our  house;  but 
she  would  generally  be  found  seated,  perfectly  quiet,  in 
some  out-of-tbe-way  nook  where  she  had  never  been  be- 
fore, playing,  not  with  any  of  her  toys,  but  with  some- 
thing she  had  picked  up  and  appropriated,  finding  in  it 
some  shadowy  amusement  which  no  one  understood  but 
herself. 

She  was  very  fond  of  bright  colors,  especially  in 
dress ;  and,  if  she  found  a  brilliant  or  gorgeous  frag- 
ment of  any  substance,  would  be  sure  to  hide  it  away 
in  some  hole  or  corner,  perhaps  known  only  to  herself 
Her  love  of  approbation  was  strong,  and  her  affection 
demonstrative  ;  but  she  had  not  yet  learned  to  speak 
tbe  truth.  In  a  word,  she  must,  we  tbought,  have  come 
of  wild  parentage,  so  many  of  her  ways  were  like  those 
of  a  forest  animal. 

In  our  design  of  training  her  for  a  maid  to  Connie, 
we  seemed  already  likely  enough  to  be  frustrated ;  at  all 
events,  there  was  nothing  to  encourage  the  attempt,  see- 
ing she  had  some  sort  of  aversion  to  Connie,  amounting 
almost  to  dread.  We  could  rarely  persuade  her  to  go 
near  her.  Perhaps  it  was  a  dislike  to  her  helpless- 
ness, —  some  vague  impression  that  her  lying  all  day  on 
the  sofa  indicated  an  unnatural  condition  of  being,  with 
which  she  could  have  no  sympathy.  Those  of  us  who 
had  the  highest  spirits,  the  greatest  exuberance  of  ani- 
mal life,  were  evidently  those  whose  society  was  most  at- 
tractive to  her.  Connie  tried  all  she  could  to  conquer 
her  dislike,  and  entice  the  wayward  thing  to  her  heart ; 
but  nothing  would  do.  Sometimes  she  would  seem  to 
Boften  for  a  moment ;  but  all  at  once,  with  a  wriggle  and 
5* 


64  TEE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

a  backward  spasm  in  the  arms  of  the  person  who  carried 
her,  she  would  manifest  such  a  fresh  access  of  repulsion, 
that,  for  fear  of  an  outburst  of  fierce  and  objurgatory 
wailing  which  might  vipset  poor  Connie  altogether,  she 
would  be  borne  off  hurriedly,  —  sometimes,  I  confess, 
rather  ungently  as  well.  I  have  seen  Connie  cry  be- 
cause of  the  child's  treatment  of  her. 

You  could  not  interest  her  so  much  in  any  story,  but 
that  if  the  buzzing  of  a  fly,  the  flutter  of  a  bird,  reached 
eye  or  ear,  away  she  would  dart  on  the  instant,  leaving 
the  discomfited  narrator  in  lonely  disgrace.  External 
nature,  and  almost  nothing  else,  had  free  access  to  her 
mind :  at  the  suddenest  sight  or  sound,  she  was  alive  on 
the  instant.  She  was  a  most  amusing  and  sometimes 
almost  bewitching  little  companion  ;  but  the  delight  in 
her  would  be  not  unfrequently  quenched  by  some  alto- 
gether unforeseen  outbreak  of  heartless  petulance  or  tur- 
bulent rebellion.  Indeed,  her  resistance  to  authority 
grew  as  she  grew  older,  and  occasioned  my  father  and 
mother,  and  indeed  all  of  us,  no  little  anxiety.  Even 
Charley  and  Harry  would  stand  with  open  mouths,  con- 
templating aghast  the  unheard-of  atrocity  of  resistance 
to  the  will  of  the  unquestioned  authorities.  It  was  what 
they  could  not  understand,  being  to  them  an  impossi- 
bility. Such  resistance  was  almost  always  accompanied 
by  storm  and  tempest;  and  the  treatment  which  carried 
away  the  latter,  generally  carried  away  the  former  with 
it ;  after  the  passion  had  come  and  gone,  she  would 
obe}^  Had  it  been  otherwise,  —  had  she  been  sullen 
and  obstinate  as  well,  —  I  do  not  know  what  would  have 
come  of  it,  or  how  we  could  have  got  on  at  all.  Misa 
Bowdler,  I  am  afraid,  would  have  had  a  very  satisfactory 
crow  ovev  papa.  I  have  seen  him  sit  for  minutes  in 
silent  contemplation  of  the  little  puzzle,  trying,  1:0 
doubt,  to  fit  her  into  his  theories,  or,  as  my  mother  said, 
to  find  her  a  three-legged  stool  and  a  corner  somewhere 
in  the  kingdom  gf  heaven ;  and  we  were  certain  some- 
thing or  other  would  come  out  of  that  pondering,  though 
whether  the  same  night  or  a  twelvemonth  after,  no  one 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  '      55 

could  tell.  I  believe  the  main  result  of  bis  tbinking 
was,  that  he  did  less  and  less  with  her. 

"  Why  do  you  take  so  little  notice  of  the  child  ?  "  my 
mother  said  to  him  one  evening.  "  It  is  all  your  doing 
that  she  is  here,  you  know.  You  mustn't  cast  her  off 
now." 

"  Cast  her  off!  "  exclaimed  my  father  :  "  what  do  you 
mean,  Ethel  ?  " 

"  You  never  speak  to  her  now." 

"  Oh,  yes  I  do,  sometimes  ! " 

"  Why  only  sometimes  ?  " 

"  Because  —  I  believe  because  I  am  a  little  afraid  of 
her.  I  don't  know  how  to  attack  the  small  enemy.  She 
seems  to  be  bomb-proof,  and  generally  impregnable." 

"  But  you  mustn't  therefore  make  her  afraid  of  youJ' 

"  I  don't  know  that.  I  suspect  it  is  my  only  chance 
with  her.  She  wants  a  little  of  IMount  Sinai,  in  order 
that  she  may  know  where  the  manna  comes  from.  But 
indeed  I  am  laying  mj^self  out  only  to  catch  the  little 
soul.  I  am  but  watching  and  pondering  how  to  reach 
her.  I  am  biding  my  time  to  come  in  with  my  small 
stone  for  the  building  up  of  this  temple  of  the  Holy 
Ghost." 

At  that  very  moment  —  in  the  last  fold  of  the  twi- 
light, with  the  moon  rising  above  the  wooded  brow  of 
Gorman  Slope  —  the  nurse  came  through  the  darkening 
air,  her  figure  hardly  distinguishable  from  the  dusk, 
saying,  — 

"  Please,  ma'am,  have  you  seen  Miss  Theodora  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  call  her  Miss,"  said  my  father. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  nurse  ;  "  I  forgot." 

"  I  have  not  seen  her  for  an  hour  or  more,"  said  my 
mother. 

"  I  declare,"  said  my  father,  "  I'll  get  a  retriever  pup, 
and  train  him  to  find  Theodora.  He  will  be  capable 
in  a  few  months,  and  she  will  be  foolish  for  years." 

Upon  this  occasion  the  truant  was  found  in  the  ap- 
ple-loft, sitting  in  a  corner  upon  a  heap  of  straw,  quite 
in  the  dark.  She  was  discovered  only  by  the  munching 
of  her  little  teeth  ;  for  she  had  found  some  wizeaed  ap- 


56  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

pies,  and  was  busy  devouring  them.  But  my  father  ac- 
tually did  what  he  had  said  :  a  favorite  spaniel  had  pupa 
a  few  days  after,  and  he  took  one  of  them  in  hand.  In 
an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  the  long-drawn  nose 
of  Wagtail,  as  the  children  had  named  him,  in  which, 
doubtless,  was  gathered  the  experience  of  many  thought- 
ful generations,  had  learned  to  track  Theodora  to  what- 
ever retreat  she  might  have  chosen ;  and  very  amusing 
it  was  to  watch  the  course  of  the  proceedings.  Some 
one  would  come  running  to  my  father  with  the  news 
that  Theo  was  in  hiding.  Then  my  father  would  give  a 
peculiar  whistle,  and  Wagtail,  who  (I  must  say  ioho) 
very  seldom  failed  to  respond,  would  come  bounding  to 
his  side.  It  was  necessary  that  my  father  should  laj/ 
him  on  (is  that  the  phrase  ?  ) ;  for  he  would  heed  no  di- 
rections from  any  one  else.  It  was  not  necessary  to  fol- 
low him,  however,  which  would  have  involved  a  tortuous 
and  fatiguing  pursuit;  but  in  a  little  while  a  joyous 
barking  would  be  heard,  always  kept  up  until  the  ready 
pursuers  were  guided  by  the  sound  to  the  place.  There 
Theo  was  certain  to  be  found,  hugging  the  animal,  with- 
out the  least  notion  of  the  traitorous  character  of  his 
blandishments  :  it  was  long  before  she  began  to  discover 
that  there  was  danger  in  that  dog's  nose.  Thus  Wag- 
tail became  a  very  important  member  of  the  family,  — 
a  bond  of  union,  in  fact,  between  its  parts.  Theo's  dis- 
appearances, however,  became  less  and  less  frequent,  — 
not  that  she  made  fewer  attempts  to  abscond,  but  that, 
every  one  knowing  how  likely  she  was  to  vanish,  who- 
ever she  was  with  had  come  to  feel  the  necessity  of  keep- 
ing both  eyes  upon  her. 


CHAPDER  IX. 

THE   FOUNDLING   KE-FOUND. 

One  evening,  during  this  my  first  visit  to  my  home, 
we  had  gone  to  take  tea  with  the  widow  of  an  old  ser- 
vant, who  lived  in  a  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
home  farm,  — 'Connie  and  I  in  the  pony  carriage,  and 
my  father  and  mother  on  foot.  It  was  quite  dark  when 
we  returned,  for  the  moon  was  late.  Connie  and  I  got 
home  first,  though  we  had  a  good  round  to  make,  and 
the  path  across  the  fields  was  but  a  third  of  the  dis- 
tance ;  for  my  father  and  mother  w^ere  lovers,  and  sure 
to  be  late  when  left  out  by  themselves.  When  we  ar- 
rived, there  was  no  one  to  take  the  pony ;  and  when  I 
rung  the  bell,  no  one  answered.  I  could  not  leave  Con- 
nie in  the  carriage  to  go  and  look ;  so  we  waited  and 
waited  till  we  were  getting  very  tired,  and  glad  indeed 
we  were  to  hear  the  voices  of  my  father  and  mother  as 
they  came  through  the  shrubbery.  JVIy  mother  went  to 
the  rear  to  make  inquiry,  and  came  back  with  the  news 
that  Theo  was  missing,  and  that  they  had  been  search- 
ing for  her  in  vain  for  nearly  an  hour.  My  father  in- 
stantly called  Wagtail,  and  sent  him  after  her.  We 
then  got  Connie  in,  and  laid  her  on  the  sofa,  where  1 
kept  her  company  while  the  rest  went  in  different  direc- 
tions, listening  from  what  quarter  would  come  the  wel- 
come voice  of  the  dog.  This  was  so  long  delayed,  how- 
ever, that  my  father  began  to  get  alarmed.  At  last  he 
whistled  very  loud ;  and  in  a  little  while  Wagtail  came 
creeping  to  his  feet,  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  —  no 
wag  left  in  it,  —  clearly  ashamed  of  himself.  IMy 
father  was  now  thoroughly  frightened,  and  began  ques- 
tioning the  household  as  to  the  latest  knowledge  of  the 

57 


58  THE   VICAR'S  daughter: 

child.  It  then  occurred  to  one  of  the  servants  to  men- 
tion that  a  strange-looking  woman  had  been  seen  about 
the  place  in  the  morning,  —  a  tall,  dark  woman,  with 
a  gypsy  look.  She  had  come  begging ;  but  my  father's 
orders  were  so  strict  concerning  such  cases,  that  nothing 
had  been  given  her,  and  she  had  gone  away  in  anger. 
As  soon  as  he  heard  this,  my  father  ordered  his  horse, 
and  told  two  of  the  men  to  get  ready  to  accompany  ])im. 
In  the  mean  time,  he  came  to  us  in  the  little  drawing- 
room,  trying  to  look  calm,  but  evidently  in  much  pertur- 
bation. He  said  he  had  little  doubt  the  woman  had 
taken  her. 

"  Could  it  be  her  mother?"  said  my  mother. 

''  Who  can  tell  ?  "  returned  my  father.  "  It  is  the 
less  likely  that  the  deed  seems  to  luive  been  prompted  by 
revenge." 

"  If  she  be  a  gypsy's  child,"  —  said  my  mother. 

"The  gypsies,"  interrupted  my  father,  "have  always 
been  more  given  to  taking  other  people's  children  than 
forsaking  their  own.  But  one  of  them  might  have  had 
reason  for  being  ashamed  of  her  child,  and,  dreading 
the  severity  of  her  family,  might  have  abandoned  it, 
with  the  intention  of  repossessing  herself  of  it,  and  pass- 
ing it  off  as  the  child  of  gentlefolks  she  had  picked  up. 
I  don't  know  their  habits  and  ways  sufficiently ;  but, 
from  what  I  have  heard,  that  seems  possible.  How- 
ever, it  is  not  so  easy  as  it  might  have  been  once  to 
succeed  in  such  an  attempt.  If  we  should  fail  in  find- 
ing-her  to-night,  the  police  all  over  the  country  can  be 
apprised  of  the  fact  in  a  few  hours,  and  the  thief  can 
hardly  escape." 

"But  if  she  should  be  the  mother?"  suggested  my 
mother. 

"  She  will  have  to  ijvove  that." 

"And  then?" 

"What  then?"  returned  my  father,  and  begaii 
pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  stopping  now  and  then  to 
listen  for  the  horses'  hoofs. 

"  Would  you  give  her  up?  "  persisted  my  mother. 

Still  my  father  made  no  reply.     He   was  evidently 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  59 

much  agitated,  —  more,  I  fancied,  by  my  mother's  ques- 
tion than  by  the  present  trouble.  He  left  the  room,  and 
presently  his  whistle  for  Wagtail  pierced  the  still  air. 
A  moment  more,  and  we  heard  them  all  ride  out  of  the 
paved  yard.  I  had  never  known  him  leave  my  mother 
without  an  answer  before. 

We  who  were  left  behind  were  in  evil  plight.  There 
was  not  a  dry  eye  amongst  the  women,  I  am  certain ; 
while  Harry  was  in  floods  of  tears,  and  Charley  was 
howling.  We  could  not  send  them  to  bed  in  such  a 
state  ;  so  we  kept  them  with  us  in  the  drawing-room, 
where  they  soon  fell  fast  asleep,  one  in  an  easy-chair, 
the  other  on  a  sheepskin  mat.  Connie  lay  quite  still, 
and  my  mother  talked  so  sweetly  and  gently  that  she 
soon  made  me  quiet  too.  But  I  was  haunted  with  the 
idea  somehow,  —  I  think  I  must  have  been  wandering 
a  little,  for  I  was  not  well,  —  that  it  was  a  child  of  my 
own  that  was  lost  out  in  the  dark  night,  and  that  I 
could  not  anyhow  reach  her.  I  cannot  explain  the  odd 
kind  of  feeling  it  was,  —  as  if  a  dream  had  wandered 
out  of  the  region  of  sleep,  and  half-possessed  my  waking 
brain.  Every  now  and  then  my  mother's  voice  would 
bring  me  back  to  my  senses,  and  I  would  understand  it 
all  perfectly  ;  but  in  a  few  moments  I  would  be  involved 
once  more  in  a  mazy  search  after  my  child.  Perhaps, 
however,  as  it  was  by  that  time  late,  sleep  had,  if  such 
a  thing  be  possible,  invaded  a  part  of  my  brain,  leaving 
another  part  able  to  receive  the  impressions  of  the  ex- 
ternal about  me.  I  can  recall  some  of  the  thingS  my 
mother  said,  —  one  in  particular. 

"  It  is  more  absurd,"  she  said,  "  to  trust  God  by 
halves,  than  it  is  not  to  believe  in  him  at  all.  Your 
papa  taught  me  that  before  one  of  you  was  born." 

When  my  mother  said  any  thing  in  the  way  of  teach- 
ing us,  which  was  not  oft«n,  she  would  generally  add, 
"  Your  papa  taught  me  that,"  as  if  she  would  take 
refuge  from  the  assumption  of  teaching  even  her  own 
girls.  But  we  set  a  good  deal  of  such  assertion  down 
to  her  modesty,  and  the  evidently  inextricable  blending 


60  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

of  the  thought  of  my  father  with  every  movement  of 
her  mental  life. 

"  I  remember  quite  well,"  she  went  on,  "  how  he  made 
that  truth  dawn  upon  me  one  night  as  we  sat  together 
beside  the  old  mill.  Ah,  you  don't  remember  the  old 
mill !  it  was  pulled  down  while  Wynnie  was  a  mere 
baby." 

"No,  mamma;  I  remember  it  perfectly,"  I  said. 

"  Do  you  really  ?  —  Well,  we  were  sitting  beside  the 
mill  one  Sunday  evening  after  service ;  for  we  always 
had  a  walk  before  going  home  from  cluirch.  You  would 
hardly  think  it  now ;  but  after  preaching  he  was  then 
always  depressed,  and  the  more  eloquently  he  had 
spoken,  the  more  he  felt  as  if  he  had  made  an  utter  fail- 
ure. At  first  I  thought  it  came  only  from  fatigue,  and 
wanted  him  to  go  home  and  rest ;  but  he  would  say  he 
liked  Nature  to  come  before  supper,  for  Nature  restored 
him  by  telling  him  that  it  was  not  of  the  slightest  con- 
sequence if  he  had  failed,  wliereas  his  supjier  only  made 
him  feel  that  he  would  do  better  next  time.  Well,  that 
night,  3'ou  will  easily  believe  he  startled  me  when  he 
said,  after  sitting  for  some  time  silent,  '  Ethel,  if  that 
yellow-hammer  were  to  drop  down  dead  now,  and  God 
not  care,  God  would  not  be  God  any  longer.'  Doubt- 
less I  showed  myself  something  between  puzzled  and 
shocked,  for  he  proceeded  with  some  haste  to  explain 
to  me  how  what  he  had  said  was  true.  'Whatever  be- 
longs to  God  is  essential  to  God,'  he  said.  '  He  is  one 
pure,  clean  essence  of  being,  to  use  our  poor  woi-ds  to 
describe  the  indescribable.  Nothing  hangs  about  him 
that  does  not  belong  to  him,  —  that  he  could  part  with 
and  be  nothing  the  worse.  Still  less  is  there  any  thing 
he  could  part  with  and  be  the  worse.  Whatever  belongs 
to  him  is  of  his  own  kind,  is  part  of  himself,  so  to 
speak.  Therefore  there  is  nothing  indifterent  to  his 
character  to  be  found  in  him ;  and  therefore  when  our 
Lord  says  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  without  our 
Father,  that,  being  a  fact  with  regard  to  God,  must  ba 
an  essential  fact,  —  one,  namely,  without  which  he  could 
ue  no  God.'     I  understood  him,  I  thought;  but  many 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  Gl 

a  time  since,  when  a  fresh  light  has  broken  in  upon 
me,  I  have  thought  I  understood  him  then  only  for  the 
first  time.  I  told  him  so  once ;  and  he  said  he  thought 
that  would  be  the  way  forever  with  all  truth,  —  we 
should  never  get  to  the  bottom  of  any  truth,  because  it 
vras  a  vital  portion  of  the  all  of  truth,  which  is  God." 

I  had  never  heard  so  much  philosojjhy  from  m}'^  mother 
before.  I  believe  she  was  led  into  it  by  her  fear  of  the 
eifect  our  anxiety  about  the  child  might  have  upon  us: 
with  what  had  quieted  her  heart  in  the  old  time  she 
sought  now  to  quiet  ours,  helping  us  to  trust  in  the  great 
love  that  never  ceases  to  watch.  And  she  did  make  us 
quiet.  But  the  time  glided  so  slowly  past  that  it  seemed 
immovable. 

When  twelve  struck,  we  heard  in  the  stillness  every 
clock  in  the  house,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  would  never 
have  done.  My  mother  left  the  room,  and  came  back 
with  three  shawls,  with  which,  having  first  laid  Harry 
on  the  rug,  she  covered  the  boys  and  Dora,  who  also 
was  by  this  time  fast  asleep,  curled  up  at  Connie's  feet. 

Still  the  time  went  on ;  and  there  was  no  sound  of 
horses  or  any  thing  to  break  the  silence,  except  the 
faint  murmur  which  now  and  then  the  trees  will  make  in 
the  quietest  night,  as  if  they  were  dreaming,  and  talked 
in  their  sleep ;  for  the  motion  does  not  seem  to  pass  be- 
yond them,  but  to  swell  up  and  die  again  in  the  heart  of 
them.  This  and  the  occasional  cry  of  an  owl  was  all 
that  broke  the  silent  flow  of  the  undivided  moments,  — 
glacier-like  flowing  none  can  tell  how.  We  seldom 
spoke,  and  at  length  the  house  within  seemed  possessed 
by  the  silence  from  without ;  but  we  were  all  ear,  —  one 
hungry  ear,  whose  famine  was  silence,  —  listening  in- 
tently. 

We  were  not  so  far  from  the  high  road,  but  that  on 
a  night  like  this  the  penetrating  sound  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  might  reach  us.  Hence,  when  my  mother,  who 
was  keener  of  hearing  than  any  of  her  daughters,  at 
length  started  up,  saying,  "  I  hear  them  !  They're  com- 
ing ! "  the  doubt  remained  whether  it  might  not  be  the 
Bound  of  some  night-traveller  hurrying  along  that  high 
6 


62  THE    VICAR'S   DAUGHTER. 

road  that  she  had  heard.  But  when  we  also  heard  the 
sound  of  horses,  we  knew  they  must  belong  to  our 
company;  for,  except  the  riders  were  within  the  gates, 
their  noises  could  not  have  come  nearer  to  the  house. 
My  mother  hurried  down  to  the  hall.  I  would  have 
staid  with  Connie ;  but  she  begged  me  to  go  too,  and 
come  back  as  soon  as  I  knew  the  result ;  so  I  followed 
my  mother.  As  I  descended  the  stairs,  notwithstanding 
m}^  anxiety,  I  could  not  help  seeing  what  a  picture  lay 
before  me,  for  I  had  learned  already  to  regard  things 
from  the  picturesque  point  of  view,  —  the  dim  light  of 
the  low-burning  lamp  on  the  forward-bent  heads  of  the 
listening,  anxious  group  of  women,  my  mother  at  the 
open  door  with  the  housekeeper  and  her  maid,  and  the 
men-servants  visible  through  the  door  in  the  moonlight 
beyond. 

The  first  news  that  reached  me  was  my  father's  shout 
the  moment  he  rounded  the  sweep  that  brought  him  in 
sight  of  the  house. 

"  All  right !     Here  she  is  !  "  he  cried. 

And,  ere  I  could  reach  the  stair  to  run  up  to  Connie, 
Wagtail  was  jumping  upon  me  and  barking  furiously. 
He  rushed  up  before  me  with  the  scramble  of  twenty 
feet,  licked  Connie's  face  all  over  in  spite  of  her  efforts 
at  self-defence,  then  rushed  at  Dora  and  the  boys  one 
after  the  other,  and  woke  them  all  up.  He  was  satis- 
fied enough  with  himself  now;  his  tail  was  doing  the 
wagging  of  forty;  there  was  no  tucking  of  it  away  now, 
—  no  diooping  of  the  head  in  mute  confession  of  con- 
scious worthlessness  ;  he  was  a  dog  self-satisfied  because 
his  master  was  well  pleased  with  him. 

But  here  I  am  talking  about  the  dog,  and  forgetting 
what  was  going  on  below. 

My  father  cantered  up  to  the  door,  followed  by  the 
two  men.  My  mother  hurried  to  meet  him,  and  then 
only  saw  the  little  lost  lamb  asleep  in  liis  bosom.  He 
gave  her  up,  and  my  mother  ran  in  with  her;  while  he 
dismounted,  and  walked  merrily  but  wearily  up  the  stair 
after  her.  The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  quiet  the  dog ; 
the  next  to  sit  down  beside  Connie  ;  the  third  to  say, 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  63 

"  Thank  God  !  "  and  the  next,  "  God  bless  Wagtail ! " 
My  mother  was  already  undressing  the  little  darling, 
and  her  maid  was  gone  to  fetch  her  night  things.  Tum- 
bled hither  and  thither,  she  did  not  wake,  but  was  car- 
ried off  stone-sleeping  to  her  crib. 

Then  my  father,  —  for  whom  some  supper,  of  which 
he  was  in  great  need,  had  been  brought,  —  as  soon  as 
he  had  had  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  mouthful  or  two  of  cold 
chicken,  began  to  tell  us  the  whole  story. 


CHAPTER  X. 

WAGTAIL  COMES  TO  HONOR. 

As  they  rode  out  of  the  gate,  one  of  the  men,  a 
trustworthy  man,  who  cared  for  his  horses  like  his  chil- 
dren, and  knew  all  their  individualities  as  few  men 
know  those  of  their  children,  rode  up  along  side  of  my 
father,  and  told  hira  that  there  was  an  encampment 
of  gypsies  on  the  moor  about  five  miles  awaj'^,  just  over 
Gorman  Slope,  remarking,  that  if  the  woman  had  taken 
the  child,  and  belonged  to  them,  she  would  certainly 
carry  her  thither.  My  father  thought,  in  the  absence 
of  other  indication,  they  ought  to  follow  the  suggestion, 
and  told  Burton  to  guide  them  to  the  place  as  rapidly 
as  possible.  After  half  an  hour's  sharp  riding,  they 
came  in  view  of  the  camp,  —  or  rather  of  a  rising 
ground  behind  which  it  lay  in  the  hollow.  The  other 
servant  was  an  old  man,  who  had  been  whipper-in  to  a 
baronet  in  the  next  county,  and  knew  as  much  of  the 
wa_ys  of  wild  animals  as  Burton  did  of  those  of  his 
horses  ;  it  was  his  turn  now  to  address  my  father,  who 
had  halted  for  a  moment  to  think  what  ought  to  be 
done  next. 

"  She  can't  well  have  got  here  before  us,  sir,  with 
that  child  to  carry.  But  it's  wonderful  what  the  likes 
of  her  can  do.  I  think  I  had  better  have  a  peep  over 
the  brow  first.  She  may  be  there  already,  or  she  may 
not ;  but,  if  we  find  out,  we  shall  kiu)w  better  what  to 
do." 

"  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  my  father. 

"No,  sir  ;  excuse  me  ;  that  won't  do.  You  can't  creep 
like  a  sarpent.    I  can.    They'll  never  know  I'm  a  stalk- 

64 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  65 

ing  of  them.  Ko  more  you  couldn't  show  fight  if  need 
was,  you  know,  sir." 

"  How  did  you  find  that  out,  Sim  ?  "  asked  my  father, 
a  little  amused,  notwithstanding  the  weight  at  his  heart. 

"  Why,  sir,  they  do  say  a  clergyman  mustn't  show 
fight." 

"  Who  told  you  that,  Sim  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  Well,  I  can't  say,  sir.  Only  it  wouldn't  be  respecta- 
ble ;  would  it,  sir  ?  " 

"  There's  nothing  respectable  but  what's  right,  Sim ; 
and  what's  right  always  is  respectable,  though  it  mayn't 
look  so  one  bit." 

"  Suppose  you  was  to  get  a  black  eye,  sir?  " 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  martyrs,  Sim  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  I've  heerd  you  talk  on  'em  in  the  pulpit, 
sir." 

"  Well,  they  didn't  get  black  eyes  only,  —  they  got 
black  all  over,  you  know,  —  burnt  i3lack  ;  and  what  for, 
do  you  think,  now  ?  " 

"  Don't  know,  sir,  except  it  was  for  doing  right." 

"  That's  just  it.     Was  it  any  disgrace  to  them  ?  " 

"  No,  sure,  sir." 

"  Well,  if  I  were  to  get  a  black  eye  for  the  sake  of  the 
child,  would  that  be  any  disgrace  to  me,  Sim  ?  " 

"None  that  I  knows  on,  sir.     Only  it'd  look  bad." 

"Yes,  no  doubt.  People  might  think  I  had  got  into 
a  row  at  the  Griffin.  And  yet  I  shouldn't  be  ashamed 
of  it.  I  should  count  my  black  eye  the  more  respecta- 
ble of  the  two.  I  should  also  regard  the  evil  judgment 
much  as  another  black  eye,  and  wait  till  the}'^  both  came 
round  again.     Lead  on,  Sim." 

They  left  their  horses  with  Burton,  and  went  toward 
the  camp.  But  when  they  reached  the  slope  behind 
which  it  lay,  much  to  Sim's  discomfiture,  my  father,  in- 
stead of  Ijang  down  at  the  foot  of  it,  as  he  expected,  and 
creeping  up  the  side  of  it,  after  the  doom  of  the  serpent, 
walked  right  up  over  the  brow,  and  straight  into  the 
camp,  followed  by  Wagtail.  Tliere  was  nothing  going 
on,  —  neither  tinkering  nor  cooking  ;  all  seemed  asleep  ; 
but  presently  out  of  two  or  three  of  the  tents,  the  dingy 

6* 


66  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

squalor  of  which  no  moonshine  could  silver  over,  came 
three  or  four  men,  half  undressed,  who  demanded  of  my 
father,  in  no  gentle  tones,  what  he  wanted  there. 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  the 
parson  of  this  parish,  and  therefore  you're  my  own  peo- 
ple, you  see." 

"  We  don't  go  to  your  church,  parson,"  said  one  of 
them. 

"  I  don't  care  ;  you're  my  own  people,  for  all  that,  and 
I  want  your  help." 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?  Who's  cow's  dead?" 
said  the  same  man. 

"  This  evening,"  returned  my  father,  "  one  of  my  chil- 
dren is  missing;  and  a  woman  who  might  be  one  of 
your  clan,  —  mind,  I  say  might  be  /  I  don't  know,  and  I 
mean  no  olience,  —  but  such  a  woman  was  seen  about 
the  place.  All  I  want  is  the  child,  and  if  I  don't  find 
her,  I  shall  have  to  raise  the  county.  I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  disturb  you;  but  I  am  afraid,  in  that  case, 
whether  the  woman  be  one  of  you  or  not,  the  place  will 
be  too  hot  for  you.  I'm  no  enemy  to  hones:;  gypsies; 
but  you  know  there  is  a  set  of  tramps  that  call  them- 
selves gypsies,  who  are  nothing  of  the  sort, — only 
thieves.  Tell  me  what  I  had  better  do  to  find  my 
child.     You  know  all  about  such  things." 

The  men  turned  to  each  other,  and  began  talking  in 
undertones,  and  in  a  language  of  which  what  my  father 
heard  he  could  not  understand.  At  length  the  spokes- 
man of  the  party  addressed  him  again. 

"  We'll  give  you  our  word,  sir,  if  that  will  satisfy 
3'ou,"  he  said,  more  respectfully  than  he  had  spoken  be- 
fore, "  to  send  the  child  home  directly  if  any  one  should 
bring  her  to  o^^r  camp.     That's  all  we  can  say." 

My  father  saw  that  his  best  chance  lay  in  accepting 
the  oi^'er. 

"Tliank  you,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  I  may  have  an 
opportunity  of  serving  you  some  day." 

They  in  their  turn  thanked  him  politely  enough,  and 
my  father  and  Sim  left  the  camp. 

Upon  this  side  the  moor  was  skirted  by  a  plantation 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  6? 

which  had  been  gradually  creeping  up  the  hill  from  the 
more  sheltered  hollow.  It  was  here  bordered  by  a 
deep  trench,  the  bottom  of  which  was  full  of  young  firs. 
Through  the  plantation  there  was  a  succession  of  green 
rides,  by  which  the  outskirts  of  my  father's  property 
could  be  reached.  But,  the  moon  being  now  up,  my 
father  resolved  to  cross  the  trench,  and  halt  for  a  time, 
watching  the  moor  from  tlie  shelter  of  the  firs,  on  the 
chance  of  the  woman's  making  her  appearance  ;  for,  if 
she  belonged  to  the  camp,  she  would  most  probably  ap- 
proach it  from  the  j)lantation,  and  might  be  overtaken 
before  she  could  cross  the  moor  to  reach  it. 

They  had  lain  ensconced  in  the  firs  for  about  half  an 
hour,  when  suddenly,  without  any  warning.  Wagtail 
rushed  into  the  underwood  and  vanished.  They  lis- 
tened with  all  their  ears,  and  in  a  few  moments  heard 
his  joyous  bark,  followed  instantly,  however,  by  a  howl 
of  pain ;  and,  before  they  had  got  many  yards  in  pur- 
suit, he  came  cowering  to  my  father's  feet,  who,  patting 
his  side,  found  it  bleeding.  He  bound  his  handkerchief 
round  him,  and,  fastening  the  lash  of  Sim's  whip  to  his 
collar  that  he  might  not  go  too  fast  for  them,  told  him 
to  find  Theodora.  Instantly  he  pulled  away  through 
the  brushwood,  giving  a  little  3"elp  now  and  then  as  the 
stiff  remnant  of  some  broken  twig  or  stem  hurt  his 
wounded  side. 

Before  we  reached  the  spot  for  which  he  was  making, 
however,  my  father  heard  a  rustling,  nearer  to  the  out- 
skirts of  the  wood,  and  the  same  moment  Wagtail 
turned,  and  tugged  fiercely  in  that  direction.  The  fig- 
ure of  a  woman  rose  up  against  the  sky,  and  began  to 
run  for  the  open  space  bej^ond.  Wagtail  and  my  father 
pursued  at  speed  ;  my  father  crying  out,  that,  if  she  did 
not  stop,  he  would  loose  the  dog  on  her.  She  paid  no 
heed,  but  ran  on. 

"Mount  and  head  her,  Sim.  Mount,  Burton,  Eide 
over  everj^  thing,"  cried  my  father,  as  he  slipped  Wag- 
tail, who  shot  through  the  underwood  like  a  bird,  just  as 
she  reached  the  trench,  and  in  an  instant  had  her  by  the 
gown.     My  father  saw  something  gleam  in  the  moon- 


68  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

light,  and  again  a  howl  broke  from  Wagtail,  who  waa 
evidently  once  more  wounded.  But  he  held  on.  And 
now  the  horsemen,  having  crossed  the  trench,  were  ap- 
proaching her  in  front,  and  my  father  was  hard  upon  her 
behind.  She  gave  a  peculiar  cry,  half  a  shriek,  and  half 
a  howl,  clasped  the  child  to  her  bosom,  and  stood  rooted 
like  a  tree,  evidently  in  the  hope  that  her  friends,  hear- 
ing her  signal,  would  come  to  her  rescue.  But  it  was 
too  late™  My  father  rushed  upon  her  the  instant  she 
cried  out.  The  dog  was  holding  her  by  the  poor  ragged 
skirt,  and  the  horses  were  reined  snorting  on  the  bank 
above  her.  She  heaved  up  the  child  over  her  head,  but 
whether  in  appeal  to  Heaven,  or  about  to  dash  her  to 
the  eartli  in  the  rage  of  frustration,  she  was  not  allowed 
time  to  show ;  for  my  father  caught  both  her  uplifted 
arms  with  his,  so  that  she  could  not  lower  them,  and 
Burton,  having  flung  himself  from  his  horse  and  come 
behind  her,  easily  took  Theodora  from  them,  for  from 
their  position  they  were  almost  powerless.  Then  my 
father  called  off  Wagtail ;  and  the  poor  creature  suixk 
down  in  the  bottom  of  the  trench  amongst  c;he  young 
firs  without  a  sound,  and  there  lay.  My  father  went 
up  to  her;  but  she  only  stared  at  him  with  big  blank 
black  eyes,  and  yet  such  a  lost  look  on  her  young,  hand- 
some, yet  gaunt  face,  as  almost  convinced  him  she  was 
the  mother  of  the  child.  But,  whatever  might  be  her 
rights,  she  could  not  be  allowed  to  recover  possession, 
without  those  who  had  saved  and  tended  the  child  hav- 
ing a  word  in  the  matter  of  her  fate. 

As  he  was  thinking  what  he  could  say  to  her,  Sim's 
voice  reached  his  ear. 

"  They're  coming  over  the  brow,  sir,  —  five  or  six  from 
the  camp.     We'd  better  be  off." 

"  The  child  is  safe,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  to  leave 
her. 

"  From  ??ie,"  she  rejoined,  in  a  pitiful  tone  ;  and  this 
ambiguous  utterance  was  all  that  fell  from  her. 

My  father  mounted  hurriedly,  took  the  child  from 
Burton,  and  rode  away,  followed  by  the  two  men  and 
Wagtail.     Through  the  green  rides  they  galloped  in  the 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  69 

moonlight,  and  were  soon  beyond  all  danger  of  pursuit. 
When  they  slackened  pace,  my  father  instructed  Sim  to 
find  out  all  he  could  about  the  gypsies,  —  if  possible  to 
learn  their  names  and  to  what  tribe  or  community  they 
belonged.  Sim  promised  to  do  what  was  in  his  power, 
but  said  he  did  not  expect  much  success. 

The  children  had  listened  to  the  story  wide  awake. 
Wagtail  was  lying  at  my  father's  feet,  licking  his 
wounds,  which  were  not  very  serious,  and  had  stopped 
bleeding. 

"  It  is  all  your  doing,  Wagtail,"  said  Harry,  patting 
the  dog. 

"  I  think  he  deserves  to  be  called  Mr.  Wagtail,"  said 
Charley. 

And  from  that  day  he  was  no  more  called  bare  Wag- 
tail, but  Mr.  Wagtail,  much  to  the  amusement  of 
visitors,  who,  hearing  the  name  gravely  uttered,  as  it 
soon  came  to  be,  saw  the  owner  of  it  approach  on  all 
fours,  with  a  tireless  pendulum  in  his  rear. 


CHAPTER  XL 

A    STUPID     CHAPTER. 

Before  proceeding  with  my  own  story,  I  must  men- 
tion that  my  father  took  every  means  in  his  power  to 
find  out  something  about  the  woman  and  the  gang  of 
gypsies  to  which  she  a2:)peared  to  belong.  I  believe  he 
had  no  definite  end  in  view  further  than  the  desire  to 
be  able  at  some  future  time  to  enter  into  such  relations 
with  her,  for  her  own  and  her  daughter's  sake,  —  if, 
indeed,  Theodora  were  her  daughter,  — as  might  be  pos- 
sible. But,  the  very  next  day,  he  found  that  they  had 
already  vanished  from  the  place ;  and  all  the  inquiries 
he  set  on  foot,  by  means  of  friends  and  through  the 
country  constabulary,  were  of  no  avail.  I  believe  he 
was  dissatisfied  with  himself  in  what  had  occurred, 
thinking  he  ought  to  have  laid  himself  out  at  the  time 
to  discover  whether  she  was  indeed  the  mother,  and,  in 
that  case,  to  do  for  her  what  he  could.  Probably,  had 
he  done  so,  he  would  only  have  heaped  difficulty  upon 
difiiculty ;  but,  as  it  was,  if  he  was  saved  from  trouble, 
he  was  not  delivered  from  uneasiness.  Clearly,  however, 
the  child  must  not  be  exposed  to  the  danger  of  the  repe- 
tition of  the  attempt ;  and  the  whole  household  was  now 
so  fully  alive  to  the  necessity  of  not  losing  sight  of  her 
for  a  moment,  that  her  danger  was  far  less  than  it  had 
been  at  any  time  before. 

I  continued  at  the  Hall  for  six  weeks,  during  which 
my  husband  came  several  times  to  see  me ;  and,  at  the 
close  of  that  period,  took  me  back  with  him  to  my  dear 
little  home.  The  rooms,  all  but  the  study,  looked  very 
small  after  those  I  had  left ;  but  I  felt,  notwithstanding, 

70 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGUTER.  71 

that  the  place  was  my  home.  I  was  at  first  a  little 
ashamed  of  the  feeling;  for  why  should  I  be  anywhere 
more  at  home  than  in  tlie  house  of  such  parents  as 
mine  ?  But  I  presume  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  the 
queenly  element  in  every  woman,  so  that  she  cannot  feel 
perfectly  at  ease  without  something  to  govern,  however 
small  and  however  troublesome  her  queendom  may  be. 
At  my  father's,  I  had  every  ministration  possible,  and 
all  comforts  in  profusion  ;  but  I  had  no  responsibilities^ 
and  no  rule ;  so  that  sometimes  I  could  not  help  feel- 
ing as  if  I  was  idle,  although  I  knew  I  was  not  to 
blame.  Besides,  I  could  not  be  at  all  sure  that  my  big 
bear  was  properly  attended  to  ;  and  the  knowledge  that 
lie  was  the  most  independent  of  comforts  of  all  the  men 
I  had  ever  come  into  any  relation  with,  made  me  only 
feel  the  more  anxious  that  he  should  not  be  left  to  his 
own  neglect.  For  although  my  father,  for  instance,  was 
ready  to  part  with  any  thing,  even  to  a  favorite  volume, 
if  the  good  reason  of  another's  need  showed  itself,  he 
was  not  at  all  indifferent  in  his  own  person  to  being 
comfortable.  One  with  his  intense  power  of  enjoj^ing 
the  gentleness  of  the  universe  could  not  be  so.  Hence 
it  was  always  easy  to  make  him  a  kttle  present ;  whereas 
I  have  still  to  rack  my  brains  for  weeks  before  my  bear's 
birthday  comes  round,  to  think  of  something  that  will  in 
itself  have  a  chance  of  giving  him  pleasure.  Of  course, 
it  would  be  comparatively  easy  if  I  had  plenty  of  money 
to  spare,  and  hadn't  "to  muddle  it  all  away"  in  paying 
butchers  and  bakers,  and  such  like  people. 

So  home  I  went,  to  be  queen  again.  Friends  came  to 
see  me,  but  I  returned  few  of  their  calls.  I  liked  best 
to  sit  in  my  bedroom.  I  would  have  preferred  sitting 
in  my  wonderful  little  room  off  the  study,  and  I  tried 
that  first ;  but,  the  same  morning,  somebody  called  on 
Percivale,  and  straightway  I  felt  myself  a  prisoner. 
The  moment  I  heard  the  strange  voice  through  the  door, 
I  wanted  to  get  out,  and  could  not,  of  course.  Such  a 
risk  I  would  not  run  again.  And  when  Percivale  asked 
me,  the  next  day,  if  I  would  not  go  down  with  him,  I 


72  TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

told  liim  I  could  not  bear  the  feeling  of  confinement  it 
gave  me. 

''I  did  mean,"  he  said,  "to  have  had  a  door  made 
into  the  garden  for  you,  and  I  consulted  an  architect 
friend  on  the  subject ;  but  he  soon  satisfied  me  it  would 
make  the  room  much  too  cold  for  you,  and  so  I  was 
compelled  to  give  up  the  thought." 

"You  dear!"  I  said.  That  was  all;  but  it  was 
enough  for  Percivale,  who  never  bothered  me,  as  I  have 
heard  of  husbands  doing,  for  demonstrations  either  of 
gratitude  or  affection.  Such  must  be  of  the  mole-eyed 
sort,  who  can  only  read  large  print.  So  I  betook  my- 
self to  my  chamber,  and  there  sat  and  worked ;  for  I 
did  a  good  deal  of  needle-work  now,  although  I  had 
never  been  fond  of  it  as  a  girl.  The  constant  recurrence 
of  similar  motions  of  the  fingers,  one  stitch  just  the 
same  as  another  in  countless  repetition,  varied  only  by 
the  bother  when  the  thread  grew  short  and  would  slip 
out  of  the  eye  of  the  needle,  and  yet  not  short  enough 
to  be  exchanged  with  still  more  bother  for  one  too  long, 
had  been  so  wearisome  to  me  in  former  days,  that  I 
spent  half  my  pocket-money  in  getting  the  needle-work 
done  for  me  which  my  mother  and  sister  did  for  them- 
selves. For  this  my  father  praised  me,  and  my  mother 
tried  to  scold  me,  and  couldn't.  But  now  it  was' all  so 
different !  Instead  of  toiling  at  plain  stitching  and 
hemming  and  sewing,  I  seemed  to  be  working  a  bit  of 
lovely  tapestry  all  the  time,  —  so  many  thoughts  and  so 
many  pictures  went  weaving  themselves  into  the  work  ; 
while  every  little  bit  finished  appeared  so  much  of  the 
labor  of  the  universe  actually  done,  —  accomplished, 
ended :  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  began  to  feel 
myself  of  consequence  enough  to  be  taken  care  of.  I 
remember  once  laying  down  the  little  —  what  I  was 
working  at  —  but  I  am  growing  too  communicative  and 
important. 

My  father  used  often  to  say  that  the  commonest  things 
in  the  world  were  the  loveliest,  —  sky  and  water  and 
grass  and  such ;  now  I  found  that  the  commonest  feel- 
ings  of  humanity — for  what  feelings  could    be   com- 


THE   VIC  ATI'S  DAUGHTER.  73 

moner  than  those  which  now  made  me  blessed  amongst 
women  ?  —  are  those  that  are  fullest  of  the  divine. 
Surely  this  looks  as  if  there  were  a  God  of  the  whole 
earth,  —  as  if  the  world  existed  in  the  very  foundations 
of  its  history  and  continuance  by  the  immediate  thought 
of  a  causing  thought.  For  simply  because  the  life  of 
the  world  was  moving  on  towards  its  unseen  goal,  and 
I  knew  it  and  had  a  helpless  share  in  it,  I  felt  as  if 
God  was  with  me.  I  do  not  say  I  always  felt  like  this, 
—  far  from  it:  there  were  times  when  life  itself  seemed 
vanishing  in  an  abyss  of  nothingness,  when  all  my  con- 
sciousness consisted  in  this,  that  I  knew  I  was  not, 
and  when  I  could  not  believe  that  I  should  ever  be  re- 
stored to  the  well-being  of  existence.  The  worst  of 
it  was,  that,  in  such  moods,  it  seemed  as  if  1  had  hitherto 
been  deluding  myself  with  rainbow  fancies  as  often  as 
I  had  been  aware  of  blessedness,  as  there  was,  in  fact, 
no  wine  of  life  apart  from  its  effervescence.  But  when 
one  day  I  told  Percivale — not  while  I  was  thus  op- 
pressed, for  then  I  could  not  speak ;  but  in  a  happier 
moment  whose  happiness  I  mistrusted  —  something  of 
what  I  felt,  he  said  one  thing  which  has  comforted  me 
ever  since  in  such  circumstances:  — 

"  Don't  grumble  at  the  poverty,  darling,  by  which 
another  is  made  rich." 

I  confess  I  did  not  see  all  at  once  what  he  meant; 
but  I  did  after  thinking  over  it  for  a  while.  And  if  I 
have  learned  any  valuable  lesson  in  my  life,  it  is  this, 
that  no  one's  feelings  are  a  measure  of  eternal  facts. 

The  winter  passed  slowly  away,  —  fog,  rain,  frost, 
snow,  thaw,  succeeding  one  another  in  all  the  seeming 
disorder  of  the  season.  A  good  many  things  happened, 
I  believe ;  but  I  don't  remember  any  of  them.  My 
mother  wrote,  offering  me  Dora  for  a  companion ;  but 
somehow  I  preferred  being  without  her.  One  great 
comfort  was  good  news  about  Connie,  who  was  getting 
on  famously.  But  even  this  moved  me  so  little  that  I 
began  to  think  I  was  turning  into  a  crab,  utterly  in- 
cased in  the  shell  of  my  own  seltishness.  The  thought 
made  me  cry.  The  fact  that  I  could  cry  consoled  me, 
7 


74  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

for  how  could  I  be  heartless  so  long  as  I  could  cry  ?  But 
then  came  the  thought  it  was  for  myself,  my  own  hard- 
heartedness  I  was  crying,  —  not  certainly  for  joy  that 
Connie  was  getting  better.  "  At  least,  however,"  I  said 
to  myself,  "  I  am  not  content  to  be  selfish.  I  am  a  little 
troubled  that  I  am  not  good."  And  then  I  tried  to  look 
up,  and  get  my  needlework,  which  always  did  me.  good, 
by  helping  me  to  reflect.  It  is,  I  can't  help  thinking,  a 
great  pity  that  needlework  is  going  so  much  out  of  fash- 
ion ;  for  it  tends  more  to  make  a  woman  —  one  who 
thinks,  that  is  —  acquainted  with  herself  than  all  the 
sermons  she  is  ever  likely  to  hear. 

My  father  came  to  see  me  several  times,  and  was  all 
himself  tome;  but  I  could  not  feel  quite  comfortable 
with  him, —  I  don't  in  the  least  know  why.  I  am  afraid, 
much  afraid,  it  indicates  something  very  wrong  in  me 
somewhere.  But  he  seemed  to  understand  me ;  and 
alwaj's,  the  moment  he  left  me,  the  tide  of  confidence  be- 
gan to  flow  afresh  in  the  ocean  that  lay  about  the  little 
island  of  my  troubles.  Then  I  knew  he  was  my  own 
father,  — something  that  even  my  husband  covdd  not  be, 
and  would  not  wish  to  be  to  me. 

In  the  month  of  March,  my  mother  came  to  see  me ; 
and  that  was  all  pleasure.  My  father  did  not  always 
see  wdien  I  was  not  able  to  listen  to  him,  though  he 
was  most  considerate  when  he  did;  but  my  mother — - 
why,  to  be  with  her  was  like  being  with  one's  own  — 
mother,  I  was  actually  going  to  write.  There  is  nothing 
better  than  that  when  a  woman  is  in  such  trouble, 
except  it  be  —  what  my  father  knows  more  about  than 
I  do :  I  wish  I  did  know  all  about  it. 

She  brought  with  her  a  young  woman  to  take  the 
place  of  cook,  or  rather  general  servant,  in  our  little 
household.  She  had  been  kitchen-maid  in  a  small 
family  of  my  mother's  acquaintance,  and  had  a  good 
character  for  honesty  and  plain  cooking.  Percivale's 
more  experienced  ear  soon  discovered  that  she  was  Irish. 
This  fact  had  not  been  represented  to  my  mother;  for 
the  girl  had  been  in  England  from  childhood,  and  her 
mistress  seemed  either  not  to  have  known  it,  or  not  to 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  75 

have  thought  of  mentioning  it.  Certainly,  my  mother 
was  far  too  just  to  have  allowed  it  to  influence  her 
choice,  notwithstanding  the  prejudices  against  Irish 
women  in  English  families, — prejudices  not  without  a 
general  foundation  in  reason.  For  my  part,  I  should 
have  been  perfectly  satisfied  with  my  mother's  choice, 
even  if  I  had  not  been  so  indifferent  at  the  time  to  all 
that  was  going  on  in  the  lower  regions  of  the  house. 
But  while  my  mother  was  there,  I  knew  well  enough  that 
nothing  could  go  wrong;  and  my  housekeeping  mind  had 
never  been  so  much  at  ease  since  we  were  married.  It 
was  very  delightful  not  to  be  accountable ;  and,  for  the 
present,  I  felt  exonerated  from  all  responsibilities. 


CHAPTEK    XII. 

AN   INTRODUCTION. 

I  WOKE  one  morning,  after  a  sound  sleep,  —  not  so 
sound,  however,  but  that  I  had  been  dreaming,  and 
that,  when  I  awoke,  I  could  recall  my  dream.  It  was  a 
very  odd  one.  I  thouglit  I  was  a  hen,  strutting  about 
amongst  ricks  of  corn,  picking  here  and  scratching 
there,  followed  by  a  whole  brood  of  chickens,  toward 
which  I  felt  exceedingly  benevolent  and  attentive.  Sud- 
denly I  heard  the  scream  of  a  hawk  in  the  air  above 
me,  and  instantly  gave  the  proper  cry  to  fetch  the  little 
creatures  under  my  wings.  They  came  scurrying  to  me 
as  fast  as  their  legs  could  carry  them,  —  all  but  one, 
which  wouldn't  mind  my  cry,  although  I  kept  repeating 
it  again  and  again.  Meantime  the  hawk  kejjt  scream- 
ing ;  and  I  felt  as  if  I  didn't  care  for  any  of  those  that 
were  safe  under  my  wings,  but  only  for  the  solitary 
creature  that  kept  pecking  away  as  if  nothing  was  the 
matter.  About  it  I  grew  so  terribly  anxious,  that  at 
length  I  woke  with  a  cry  of  misery  and  terror. 

The  moment  I  opened  my  eyes,  there  was  my  mothei 
standing  beside  me.  The  room  was  so  dark  that  I 
thought  for  a  moment  what  a  fog  there  must  be  ;  but 
the  next,  I  forgot  every  thing  at  hearing  a  little  crj, 
which  I  verily  believe,  in  my  stupid  dream,  I  had  taken 
for  the  voice  of  the  hawk ;  whereas  it  was  the  cry  of 
my  first  and  only  chicken,  which  I  had  not  yet  seen,  but 
which  my  mother  now  held  in  her  grandmotherly  arms, 
ready  to  hand  her  to  me.  I  dared  not  speak  ;  for  I  felt 
very  weak,  and  was  afraid  of  crying  from  delight.  I 
looked  in  my  mother's  face  ;  and  she  folded  back  tho 

73 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  77 

clothes,  and  laid  the  baby  down  beside  me,  with  its  little 
head  resting  on  my  arm. 

"  Draw  back  the  curtain  a  little  bit,  mother  dear,"  I 
whispered,  "  and  let  me  see  what  it  is  like." 

I  believe  I  said  it,  for  I  was  not  quite  a  mother  yet. 
My  mother  did  as  I  requested ;  a  ray  of  clear  spring 
light  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  little  white  thing  by 
my  side,  —  for  white  she  was,  though  most  babies  are  rod, 
—  and  if  I  dared  not  speak  before,  I  could  not  now. 
My  mother  went  away  again,  and  sat  down  by  the  fire- 
side, leaving  me  with  my  baby.  Never  shall  I  forget  the 
unutterable  content  of  that  hour.  It  was  not  gladness, 
nor  was  it  thankfulness,  that  filled  my  heart,  but  a  cer- 
tain absolute  contentment,  — just  on  the  point,  but  for 
my  want  of  strength,  of  blossoming  into  unspeakable 
gladness  and  thankfulness.  Somehow,  too,  there  was 
mingled  with  it  a  sense  of  dignity,  as  if  I  had  vindi- 
cated for  myself  a  right  to  a  part  in  the  creation ;  for 
was  I  not  proved  at  least  a  link  in  the  marvellous  chain 
of  existence,  in  carrying  on  the  designs  of  the  great 
Maker  ?  Not  that  the  thought  was  there,  —  only  the 
feeling,  which  afterwards  found  the  thought,  in  order  to 
account  for  its  own  being.  Besides,  the  state  of  perfect 
repose  after  what  had  passed  was  in  itself  bliss  ;  the  very 
sense  of  weakness  was  delightful,  for  I  had  earned  the 
right  to  be  weak,  to  rest  as  much  as  I  pleased,  to  be 
important,  and  to  be  congratulated. 

Somehow  I  had  got  through.  The  trouble  lay  behind 
me  ;  and  here,  for  the  sake  of  any  one  who  will  read  my 
poor  words,  I  record  the  conviction,  that,  in  one  way 
or  other,  special  individual  help  is  given  to  every  crea- 
ture to  endure  to  the  end.  I  think  I  have  heard  my 
father  say,  and  hitherto  it  has  been  my  own  experience, 
that  always  when  sufiering,  whether  mental  or  bodily, 
approached  the  point  where  further  endurance  appeared 
impossible,  the  pulse  of  it  began  to  ebb,  and  a  lull  en- 
dued. I  do  not  venture  to  found  any  general  assertion 
upon  this  :  I  only  state  it  as  a  fact  of  my  own  experi- 
ence.    He  who  does  not  allow  any  man  to  be  tempted 

r* 


78  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

above  that  he  is  able  to  bear,  doubtless  acts  in  the  same 
way  in  all  kinds  of  trials. 

I  was  listening  to  the  gentle  talk  about  nie  in  the 
darkened  room  —  not  listening,  indeed,  only  aware  that 
loving  words  were  spoken.  Whether  I  was  dozing,  I  do 
not  know;  but  something  touched  my  lijDs.  I  did  not 
start.  I  had  been  dreadfully  given  to  starting  for  a 
long  time,  —  so  much  so  that  I  was  quite  ashamed  some- 
times, for  I  would  even  cry  out,  —  I  who  had  always 
been  so  sharp  on  feminine  aifectations  before  ;  but  now 
it  seemed  as  if  nothing  could  startle  me.  I  only  opened 
my  eyes  ;  and  there  was  my  great  big  huge  bear  looking 
down  on  me,  with  something  in  his  eyes  I  had  never 
seen  there  before.  But  even  his  presence  could  not  rip- 
ple the  waters  of  my  deep  rest.  I  gave  him  half  a  smile, 
—  I  knew  it  was  but  half  a  smile,  but  I  thought  it 
would  do,  —  closed  my  eyes,  and  sunk  again,  not  into 
sleep,  but  into  that  same  blessed  repose.  I  remember 
wondering  if  I  should  feel  any  thing  like  that  for  the 
first  hour  or  two  after  I  was  dead.  May  there  not  one 
day  be  such  a  repose  for  all,  — only  the  heavenly  coun- 
terpart, coming  of  perfect  activity  instead  of  weary 
success  ? 

This  was  all  but  the  beginning  of  endlessly  varied 
pleasures.  I  dare  say  the  mothers  would  let  me  go 
on  for  a  good  while  in  this  direction,  —  perhaps  even 
some  of  the  fathers  could  stand  a  little  more  of  it ;  but 
I  must  remember,  that,  if  anybody  reads  this  at  all,  it 
will  have  multitudes  of  readers  in  whom  the  chord 
which  could  alone  respond  to  such  experiences  hangs 
loose  over  the  sounding-board  of  their  being. 

By  slow  degrees  the  daylight,  the  light  of  work,  that 
is,  began  to  penetrate  me,  or  rather  to  rise  in  xay  being 
from  its  own  hidden  sun.  First  I  began  to  wash  and 
dress  my  baby  myself.  One  who  has  not  tried  tliat 
kind  of  amusement  cannot  know  what  endless  pleasure 
it  aflbrds.  I  do  not  doubt  that  to  the  paternal  specta- 
tor it  appears  monotonous,  unjjroductive,  unprogressive  ; 
but  then  he,  looking  upon  it  from  the  outside,  and  re- 
garding the  process  with  a  speculative  compassion,  and 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER  79 

not  with  sympathy,  so  cannot  know  the  communion  into 
which  it  brings  you  with  the  baby.  I  remember  well 
enough  what  my  father  has  written  about  it  in  "  The 
Seaboard  Parish  ;  "  but  he  is  all  wrong  —  I  mean '  him 
to  confess  that  before  this  is  printed.  If  things  were 
done  as  he  proposes,  the  tenderness  of  mothers  would  be 
far  less  developed,  and  the  moral  training  of  children 
would  be  postponed  to  an  indefinite  period.  There, 
papa  !  that's  something  in  your  own  style  ! 

Next  I  began  to  order  the  dinners ;  and  the  very  day 
on  which  I  first  ordered  the  dinner,  I  took  my  place  at 
the  head  of  the  table.  A  happier  little  party  —  well, 
of  course,  I  saw  it  all  through  the  rose-mists  of  my 
motherhood,  but  I  am  nevertheless  bold  to  assert  that 
my  husband  was  happy,  and  that  my  mother  was  hap- 
py ;  and  if  there  was  one  more  guest  at  the  table  con- 
cerning whom  I  am  not  prepared  to  assert  that  he  was 
happy,  I  can  confidently  affirm  that  he  was  merry  and 
gracious  and  talkative,  originating  three  parts  of  the 
laughter  of  the  evening.  To  watch  him  with  the  baby 
was  a  pleasure  even  to  the  heart  of  a  mother,  anxious  as 
she  must  be  when  any  one,  especially  a  gentleman,  more 
especially  a  bachelor,  and  most  especially  a  young  bach- 
elor, takes  her  precious  little  wax-doll  in  his  arms,  and 
pretends  to  know  all  about  the  management  of  such.  It 
was  he  indeed  who  introduced  her  to  the  dining-room  ; 
for,  leaving  the  table  during  dessert,  he  returned  bearing 
her  in  his  arms,  to  my  astonishment,  and  even  mild  ma- 
ternal indignation  at  the  liberty.  Resuming  his  seat, 
and  pouring  out  for  his  charge,  as  he  pretended,  a  glass 
of  old  port,  he  said  in  the  soberest  voice  :  — 

"  Charles  Percivale,  with  all  the  solemnity  suitable  to 
the  occasion,  I,  the  old  moon,  with  the  new  moon  in  my 
arms,  propose  the  health  of  Miss  Percivale  on  her  first 
visit  to  this  boring  bullet  of  a  world.  By  the  way,  what 
a  mercy  it  is  that  she  carries  her  atmosphere  with  her!" 

Here  I,  stupidly  thinking  he  reflected  on  the  atmos- 
phere of  baby,  rose  to  take  her  from  him  with  sup- 
pressed indignation  ;  for  why  should  a  man,  who  assumes 
a  baby  unbidden,  be   so  very  much  nicer  than  a  woman 


80  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

who  accepts  her  as  given,  and  makes  the  best  of  it  ? 
But  he  declined  giving  her  up. 

"I'm  not  pinching  her,"  he  said. 

"No;  but  I  am  afraid  you  find  her  disagreeable." 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  is  the  nicest  of  little  ladies ; 
for  she  lets  you  talk  all  the  nonsense  you  like,  and  never 
tikes  the  least  offence." 

I  sat  down  again  directly. 

"I  propose  her  health,"  he  repeated,  "  coupled  with 
that  of  her  mother,  to  whom  I,  for  one,  am  more  obliged 
than  I  can  explain,  for  at  length  convincing  me  that  I 
belong  no  more  to  the  youth  of  my  country,  but  am  an 
uncle  with  a  homuncle  in  his  arms." 

"  Wifie,  j^our  health  !  Baby,  yours  too  !  "  said  my  hus- 
band ;  and  the  ladies  drank  the  toast  in  silence. 

It  is  time  I  explained  who  this  fourth  —  or  should  I 
say  fifth  ?  —  person  in  our  family  partj^  was.  He  was 
the  younger  brother  of  my  Percivale,  by  name  Roger,  — 
still  more  unsuccessful  than  he  ;  of  similar  trustworthi- 
ness, but  less  equanimity;  for  he  was  subject  to  sudden 
elevations  and  depressions  of  the  inner  barometer.  I 
shall  have  more  to  tell  about  him  by  and  by.  Mean- 
time it  is  enough  to  mention  that  my  daughter  —  how 
gj-and  I  thought  it  when  I  first  said  viy  datighter !  — 
now  began  her  acquaintance  with  him.  Before  long 
he  was  her  chief  favorite  next  to  her  mother  and  —  I 
am  sorry  I  cannot  conscientiously  add  father  y  for,  at  a 
certain  early  period  of  her  history,  the  child  showed  a 
decided  preference  for  her  uncle  over  her  father. 

But  it  is  time  I  put  a  stop  to  this  ooze  of  maternal 
memories.  Having  thus  introduced  my  baby  and  her 
Uncle  Eoger,  I  close  the  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MT   FIRST   DIN^EK-PARTT.      A   NEGATIVED    PROPOSAL. 

It  may  well  be  believed  that  we  had  not  yet  seen 
much  company  in  our  little  house.  To  parties  my  hus- 
band had  a  great  dislike ;  evening  parties  he  eschewed 
utterlj',  and  never  accepted  an  invitation  to  dinner,  ex- 
cept it  were  to  the  house  of  a  friend,  or  to  that  of  one 
of  my  few  relatives  in  London,  whom,  for  my  sake,  he 
would  not  displease.  There  were  not  many,  even  among 
his  artist-acquaintances,  whom  he  cared  to  visit ;  and, 
altogether,  I  fear  he  passed  for  an  unsociable  man.  I  am 
certain  he  would  have  sold  more  pictures  if  he  had  ac- 
cepted what  invitations  came  in  his  way.  But  to  hint 
at  such  a  thing  would,  I  knew,  crystallize  his  dislike 
into  a  resolve. 

One  day,  after  I  had  got  quite  strong  again,  as  I  was 
sitting  by  him  in  the  study,  with  my  baby  on  my  knee, 
I  proposed  that  we  should  ask  some  friends  to  dinner. 
Instead  of  objecting  to  the  procedure  upon  general  prin- 
ciples, which  I  confess  I  had  half  anticipated,  he  only 
asked  me  whom  I  thought  of  inviting.  When  I  men- 
tioned tlie  Morleys,  he  made  no  reply,  but  went  on  with 
his  painting  as  if  he  had  not  heard  me  ;  whence  I  knew, 
of  course,  that  tlie  proposal  was  disagreeable  to  him. 

"  You  see,  we  have  been  twice  to  dine  with  them," 
I  said. 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  that  enough  for  a  while  ?  " 

"I'm  talking  of  asking  them  here  now." 

"  Couldn't  you  go  and  see  your  cousin  some  morning 
instead  ?  " 

"  It's  not  that  I  want  to  see  my  cousin  particularly. 
I  want  to  ask  them  to  dinner." 

81 


82  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

^'Oh!"  he  said,  as  if  he  couldn't  in  the  least  make 
out  what  I  was  after,  "  I  thought  people  asked  people 
because  they  desired  their  company." 

"But,  3'ou  see,  we  owe  them  a  dinner." 

"  Owe  them  a  dinner  !     Did  you  borrow  one,  then  ?  " 

"  Percivale,  why  will  you  pretend  to  be  so  stupid  ?  " 

"Perhaps  I'm  only  pretending  to  be  the  other  thing." 

"  Do  you  consider  yourself  under  no  obligation  to  peo- 
ple who  ask  you  to  dinner  ?  " 

"  None  in  the  least  —  if  I  accept  the  invitation.  That 
is  the  natural  acknowledgment  of  their  kindness. 
Surely  my  company  is  worth  my  dinner.  It  is  far  more 
trouble  to  me  to  put  on  black  clothes  and  a  white  choker 
and  go  to  their  house,  than  it  is  for  them  to  ask  me,  or, 
in  a  house  like  theirs,  to  have  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions made  for  receiving  me  in  a  manner  befitting  their 
dignity.  I  do  violence  to  my  own  feelings  in  going :  is 
not  that  enough  ?  You  know  how  much  I  prefer  a  chop 
with  my  wife  alone  to  the  grandest  dinner  the  grandest 
of  her  grand  relations  could  give  me." 

"Now,  don't  you  make  game  of  my  grand  relations. 
I'm  not  sure  that  you  haven't  far  grander  relations  your- 
self, only  you  say  so  little  about  them,  they  might  all 
have  been  transported  for  housebreaking.  Tell  me 
honestly,  don't  you  think  it  natural,  if  a  friend  asks  you 
to  dinner,  that  you  should  ask  him  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  it  would  give  him  any  pleasure.  But  just 
imagine  your  Cousin  Morley  dining  at  our  table.  Do 
you  think  he  would  enjoy  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  we  must  have  somebody  in  to  help 
Jemima." 

"  And  somebody  to  wait,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  Percivale." 

"And  what  Thackeray  calls  cold  balls  handed 
about  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  have  them  cold." 

"  But  they  would  be." 

I  was  by  this  time  so  nearly  crying,  that  I  said 
nothing  here. 

"My  love,"  he  resumed,  "I  object  to  the  whole  thing. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  83 

It's  all  false  together.  I  have  not  the  least  disinclina- 
tion to  asking  a  few  friends  who  would  enjoy  being  re- 
ceived in  the  same  st_yle  as  your  father  or  ray  brother ; 
namely,  to  one  of  our  better  dinners,  and  perhaps  some- 
thing better  to  drink  than  I  can  aftbrd  every  day;  but 
just  think  with  what  uneasy  compassion  Mr.  Morley 
would  regard  our  poor  ambitions,  even  if  you  had  an  oc- 
casional cook  and  an  undertaker's  man.  And  what 
would  he  do  without  his  glass  of  dry  sherry  after  his 
soup,  and  his  hock  and  champagne  later,  not  to  mention 
his  fine  claret  or  tawny  port  afterwards  ?  I  don't  know 
how  to  get  these  things  good  enough  for  him  without 
laying  in  a  stock  ;  and,  that  you  know,  would  be  as  absurd 
as  it  is  impossible." 

"  Oh,  you  gentlemen  always  think  so  much  of  the 
wine  !  " 

"Believe  me,  it  is  as  necessary  to  Mr.  Morley's  com- 
fort as  the  dainties  you  would  provide  him  with.  In- 
deed, it  would  be  a  cruelty  to  ask  him.  He  would  not, 
could  not,  enjoy  it." 

''  If  he  didn't  like  it,  he  needn't  come  again,"  I  said, 
cross  with  the  objections  of  which  I  could  not  but  see  the 
justice. 

'•  Well,  I  must  say  you  have  an  odd  notion  of  hospi- 
tality," said  my  bear.  "  You  may  be  certain,"  he  re- 
sumed, after  a  moment's  pause,  "that  a  man  so  well 
aware  of  his  own  importance  will  take  it  far  more  as  a 
compliment  that  3'ou  do  not  presume  to  invite  him  to 
your  house,  but  are  content  to  enjoy  his  society  when  he 
asks  you  to  his." 

"  I  don't  choose  to  take  such  an  inferiorposition,"  I  said. 

"  You  can't  help  it,  my  dear,"  he  returned.  "  Socially 
considered,  you  are  his  inferior.  You  cannot  give  din- 
ners he  would  regard  with  any  thing  better  than  a 
friendly  contempt,  combined  with  a  certain  mild  indig- 
nation at  your  having  presumed  to  ask  liim,  used  to  such 
different  ways.  It  is  far  more  graceful  to  accept  the 
small  fact,  and  let  him  have  his  whim,  which  is  not  a 
subversive  one  or  at  all  dangerous  to  the  community,  be- 
ing of  a  sort  easy  to  cure.     Ha  !  ha !  ha !  " 


84  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  May  I  ask  what  you  are  laughing  at  ?  "  I  said  with 

severity. 

"  I  was  only  fancying  how  such  a  man  must  feel,  —  if 
what  your  blessed  father  believes  be  true,  —  when  he  is 
stripped  all  at  once  of  every  possible  source  of  conse- 
quence,—  stripped  of  position,  funds,  house,  including 
cellar,  clothes,  body,  including  stomach  "  — 

"  There,  there  !  don't  be  vulgar.  It  is  not  like  you^ 
Percivale." 

"  My  love,  there  is  far  greater  vulgarity  in  refusing  to 
acknowledge  the  inevitable,  either  iu  society  or  in  physi- 
ology. Just  ask  my  brother  his  experience  in  regard  of 
the  word  to  which  joxx  object." 

"  I  will  leave  that  to  you." 

"  Don't  be  vexed  with  me,  my  wife,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  like  not  to  be  allowed  to  pay  my  debts." 

"  Back  to  the  starting-point,  like  a  hunted  hare  !  A 
woman's  way,"  he  said  merrily,  hoping  to  make  me 
laugh  ;  for  he  could  not  doubt  I  should  see  the  absurdity 
of  my  position  with  a  moment's  reflection.  But  I  was 
out  of  temper,  and  chose  to  pounce  upon  the  liberty 
taken  with  my  sex,  and  regard  it  as  an  insult.  With- 
out a  word  I  rose,  pressed  my  bab}^  to  my  bosom  as  if 
her  mother  had  been  left  a  widow,  and  swept  away. 
Percivale  started  to  his  feet.  I  did  not  see,  but  I  knew 
he  gazed  after  me  for  a  moment;  then  I  heard  him  sit 
down  to  his  painting  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  but,  I 
knew,  with  a  sharp  pain  inside  his  great  chest.  For  me, 
I  found  the  precipice,  or  Jacob's  ladder,  I  had  to  climb, 
very  subversive  of  my  dignity  ;  for  when  a  woman  has 
io  hold  a  baby  in  one  arm,  and  with  the  hand  of  the 
other  lift  the  front  of  her  skirt  in  order  to  walk  up  an 
almost  perpendicular  staircase,  it  is  quite  impossible  for 
her  to  siveejJ  any  more. 

Wlieu  I  reached  the  top,  I  don't  know  how  it  was, 
but  the  picture  he  had  made  of  me,  with  the  sunset- 
shine  coming  through  the  window,  flashed  upon  my 
memory.  All  dignity  forgotten,  I  bolted  through  the 
door  at  the  top,  flung  ray  baby  into  the  arms  of  her 
nurse,  turned,  almost  tumbled  headlong  down  the  preci- 


[TJiriVEBSITT] 

OB" 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  85 

pice,  and  alt-ogether  tumbled  down  at  my  husband's 
chair.  I  couldn't  speak ;  I  could  only  lay  my  head  on 
his  knees. 

"  Darling,"  he  said,  "you  shall  ask  the  great  Pan  Jan 
with  his  button  atop,  if  you  like.  I'll  do  my  best  for 
him." 

Between  crying  and  laughing,  I  nearly  did  what  I 
have  never  really  done  yet.  — I  nearly  we/it  off.  There ! 
I  am  sure  that  phrase  is  quite  as  objectionable  as  the 
word  I  wrote  a  little  while  ago  ;  and  there  it  shall  stand, 
as  a  penance  for  having  called  any  word  my  husband 
used  vulgar. 

"  I  was  very  naughty,  Percivale,"  I  said.  "  I  will  give 
a  dinner-party,  and  it  shall  be  such  as  you  shall  enjoy, 
and  I  won't  ask  Mr.  Morley." 

"  Thank  you,  my  love,"  he  said  ;  "and  the  next  time 
Mr.  Morley  asks  us  I  will  go  witliout  a  grumble,  and 
make  myself  as  agreeable  as  I  can." 

It  may  have  seemed,  to  some  of  my  readers,  occasion 
for  surprise  that  the  mistress  of  a  household  should  have 
got  so  far  in  the  construction  of  a  book  without  saying  a 
word  about  her  own  or  other  people's  servants  in  gen- 
eral. Such  occasion  shall  no  longer  be  afibrded  them ; 
for  now  I  am  going  to  say  several  things  about  one  of 
mine,  and  thereby  introduce  a  few  results  of  much  ex- 
perience and  some  thought.  I  do  not  pretend  to  have 
made  a  single  discovery,  but  only  to  have  achieved  what 
I  count  a  certain  measure  of  success ;  which,  however, 
I  owe  largely  to  my  own  poverty,  and  the  stupidity  of 
my  cook. 

I  have  had  a  good  many  servants  since,  but  Jemima 
seems  a  fixture.  How  this  has  come  about,  it  would  be 
impossible  to  say  in  ever  so  many  words.  Over  and  over 
I  have  felt,  and  may  feel  again  before  the  day  is  ended, 
a  profound  sympathy  with  Sindbad  the  sailor,  when  the 
Old  Man  of  the  Sea  was  on  his  back,  and  the  hope  of 
ever  getting  him  off  it  had  not  j^et  begun  to  dawn.  She 
has  by  turns  every  fault  under  the  sun,  —  I  say  fault 
only ;  will  struggle  with  one  for  a  day,  and  succumb  to 


86  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

it  for  a  month ;  wliile  the  smallest  amount  of  praise  is 
sufficient  to  render  her  incapable  of  deserving  a  word  of 
commendation  for  a  week.  She  is  intensely  stupid,  with 
a  remarkable  genius — yes,  genius  —  for  cooking.  My 
father  says  that  all  stupidity  is  caused,  or  at  least  main- 
tained, by  conceit.  I  cannot  quite  accompany  him  to 
his  conclusions;  but  I  have  seen  plainly  enougli  that  the 
stupidest  people  are  the  most  conceited,  which  in  some 
degree  favors  them.  It  was  long  an  impossibility  to 
make  her  see,  or  at  least  own,  that  she  was  to  blame  for 
any  thing.  If  the  dish  she  liad  last  time  cooked  to  per- 
fection made  its  appearance  the  next  time  uneatable,  she 
would  la^  it  all  to  the  sllljj  oven,  which  was  too  hot  or 
too  cold;  or  the  silly  pepper-pot,  the  top' of  which  fell 
off  as  she  was  using  it.  She  had  no  sense  of  the  value 
of  proportion,  —  would  insist,  for  instance,  that  she  had 
made  the  cake  precisely  as  she  had  been  told,  but  sud- 
denly betray  that  she  had  not  weighed  the  flour,  which 
could  be  of  no  consequence,  seeing  she  had  weighed 
every  thing  else. 

"Please,  'm,  could  you  eat  your  dinner  now?  for  it's 
all  ready,"  she  came  saying  an  hour  before  dinner-time, 
the  very  first  day  after  my  mother  left.  Even  now  her 
desire  to  be  punctual  is  chiefly  evidenced  by  absurd  pre- 
cipitancy, to  the  danger  of  doing  every  thing  either  to 
a  pulp  or  a  cinder.  Yet  here  she  is,  and  here  she  is 
likely  to  remain,  so  far  as  I  see,  till  death,  or  some  other 
catastrophe,  us  do  part.  The  reason  of  it  is,  that,  with 
all  her  faults  —  and  they  are  innumerable  —  she  has 
some  heart;  yes,  after  deducting  all  that  can  be  laid  io 
the  account  of  a  certain  cunning  perception  that  she  is 
well  ottj  she  has  yet  a  good  deal  of  genuine  attachment 
left ;  and  after  setting  down  the  half  of  her  possessions 
to  the  blarney  which  is  the  natural  weapon  of  the  weak- 
wittod  Celt,  there  seems  yet  left  in  her  of  the  vanishing 
clan  instinct  enough  to  render  her  a  jealous  partisan  of 
her  master  and  mistress. 

Those  who  care  only  for  being  well- served  will  of 
course  feel  contemptuous  towards  any  one  who  would 
put  up  with  such  a  woman  for  a  single  moment  after  she 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  87 

could  find  another;  but  both  I  and  my  husband  have  a 
strong  preference  for  living  in  a  family,  rather  than  in 
a  hotel.  I  know  many  houses  in  which  the  master  and 
mistress  are  far  more  like  the  lodgers,  on  sufferance  of 
their  own  servants.  I  have  seen  a  worthy  lady  go  about 
wringing  her  hands  because  she  could  not  get  her  orders 
attended  to  in  the  emergency  of  a  slight  accident,  not 
daring  to  go  down  to  her  own  kitchen,  as  her  love 
prompted,  and  expedite  the  ministration.  I  am  at  least 
mistress  in  my  own  house ;  my  servants  are,  if  not  yet 
so  much  members  of  the  family  as  I  could  wish,  gradu- 
ally becoming  more  so  ;  there  is  a  circulation  of  common 
life  through  the  household,  rendering  us  an  organization, 
although  as  yet  perhaps  a  low  one  ;  I  am  sure  of  being 
obeyed,  and  there  are  no  underhand  out-of-door  connec- 
tions. When  I  go  to  the  houses  of  my  rich  relations, 
and  hear  what  they  say  concerning  their  servants,  I  feel 
as  if  they  were  living  over  a  mine,  which  might  any 
day  be  sprung,  and  blow  them  into  a  state  of  utter  help- 
lessness ;  and  I  return  to  my  house  blessed  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  my  little  kingdom  is  my  own,  and  that,  al- 
though it  is  not  free  from  internal  upheavings  and 
stormy  commotions,  these  are  such  as  to  be  within  the 
control  and  restraint  of  the  general  family  influences ; 
while  the  blunders  of  the  cook  seem  such  trifles  beside 
the  evil  customs  established  in  most  kitchens  of  which  I 
know  any  thing,  that  they  are  turned  even  into  sources 
of  congratulation  as  securing  her  services  for  ourselves. 
More  than  once  my  husband  has  insisted  on  raising  her 
wages,  on  the  ground  of  the  endless  good  he  gets  in  his 
painting  from  the  merriment  her  oddities  afford  him,  — 
namely,  the  clear  insight,  which,  he  asserts,  is  the  inva- 
riable consequence.  I  must  in  honesty  say,  however, 
that  I  have  seen  him  something  else  than  merry  with 
her  behavior,  many  a  time. 

But  I  find  the  things  I  have  to  say  so  crowd  upon  me, 
that  I  must  either  proceed  to  arrange  them  under  heads, 
—  which  would  immediately  deprive  them  of  any  right 
to  a  place  in  my  story,  —  or  keep  them  till  they  are  nat- 
urally swept  from  the  bank  of  my  material  by  the  slow 


38  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

wea.'ing  of  the  current  of  ray  narrative.  I  prefer  the 
latter,  because  I  think  my  readers  will. 

What  with  one  thing  and  another,  this  thing  to  be 
done  and  that  thing  to  be  avoided,  there  was  nothing 
more  said  about  the  dinner-party,  until  my  father  came 
to  see  us  in  the  month  of  July.  I  was  to  have  paid 
them  a  visit  before  then ;  but  things  had  come  in  the 
way  of  that  also,  and  now  my  father  was  commissioned 
by  my  mother  to  arrange  for  my  going  the  next  month. 

As  soon  as  I  had  shown  my  father  to  his  little  room, 
I  ran  down  to  Percivale. 

"  Papa  is  come,"  I  said. 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  he  answered,  laying  down 
his  palette  and  brushes.     "  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Gone  up  stairs,"  I  answered.  "I  wouldn't  disturb 
you  till  he  came  down  again." 

He  answered  with  that  world-wide  English  phrase,  so 
suggestive  of  a  hopeful  disposition,  "  All  right !  "  And 
with  all  its  grumbling,  and  the  tristesse  which  the 
French  consider  its  chief  characteristic,  I  think  my  fa- 
ther is  right,  who  says,  that,  more  than  any  other  nation, 
England  has  been,  is,  and  will  be,  saved  by  hope.  Re- 
suming his  implements,  my  husband  added,  — 

"  I  haven't  quite  finished  my  pipe,  —  I  will  go  on  till 
he  comes  down." 

Although  he  laid  it  on  his  pipe,  I  knew  well  enough 
it  was  just  that  little  bit  of  paint  he  wanted  to  finish, 
and  not  the  residue  of  tobacco  in  the  black  and  red 
bowl. 

"  And  now  we'll  have  our  dinner  party,"  I  said. 

I  do  believe,  that,  for  all  the  nonsense  I  had  talked 
about  returning  invitations,  the  real  thing  at  my  heart 
even  then  was  an  impulse  towards  hospitable  entertain- 
ment, and  the  desire  to  see  my  husband  merry  with  his 
friends,  under  —  shall  I  say  it  ?  —  the  protecting  wing 
of  his  wife.  For,  as  mother  of  the  family,  tlie  wife  has 
to  mother  her  husband  also  ;  to  consider  him  as  her  first- 
born, and  look  out  for  what  will  not  only  give  him  pleas- 
ure but  be  good  for  him.  And  I  may  just  add  here,  that 
for  a  long  time  my  bear  has  fully  given  in  to  this. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  89 

"  And  who  <are  you  going  to  ask  ?  "  he  said.  "  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Morley  to  begin  with,  and  "  — 

"  No,  no,"  I  answered.  "  We  are  going  to  have  a  jolly 
evening  of  it,  with  nobody  present  wlio  will  make  you 
either  anxious  or  annoyed.  Mr.  Blackstone,"  —  he 
wasn't  married  then,  —  "  Miss  Clare,  I  think, —  and  "  — 

'*  What  do  you  ask  her  for  ?  " 

"  I  won't  if  3'ou  don't  like  her,  but "  — 

"  I  haven't  had  a  chance  of  liking  or  disliking  her 

yet." 

"  That  is  partly  why  I  want  to  ask  her,  —  I  am  no 
sure  you  would  like  her  if  you  knew  her." 

"  Where  did  you  tell  me  j'ou  had  met  her  ?  " 

"  At  Cousin  Judy's.  I  must  have  one  lady  to  keej 
me  in  countenance  with  so  many  gentlemen,  j^ou  know. 
I  have  another  reason  for  asking  her,  which  I  would 
rather  you  should  find  out  than  I  tell  you.  Do  you 
mind?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  if  you  don't  think  she  will  spoil 
the  fun." 

"I  am  sure  she  won't.  Then  there's  your  brother 
Koger." 

"  Of  course.     Who  more  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  will  do.  There  will  be  six  of  us  then, 
—  quite  a  large  enough  party  for  our  little  dining- 
room." 

"  Why  shouldn't  we  dine  here  ?  It  wouldn't  be  so 
hot,  and  we  should  have  more  room." 

I  liked  the  idea.  The  night  before,  Percivale  ar- 
ranged every  thing,  so  that  not  only  his  paintings,  of 
which  he  had  far  too  man}'-,  and  which  were  huddled 
about  the  room,  but  all  his  properties  as  well,  should  be 
accessory  to  a  picturesque  effect.  And  when  the  table 
was  covered  with  the  glass  and  plate,  —  of  which  latter 
my  mother  had  taken  care  I  should  not  be  destitute,  — 
and  adorned  with  the  flowers  which  Roger  brought  me 
from  Covent  Garden,  assisted  by  a  few  of  our  own,  I 
thought  the  bird's-e3fe  view  from  the  top  of  Jacob's  lad- 
der a  very  pretty  one  indeed. 

Resolved  that  Percivale  should  have  no  cause  of  com- 

8* 


90  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

plaint  as  regarded  the  simplicity  of  my  arrangements, 
I  gave  orders  that  our  little  Ethel,  who  at  tliat  time  of 
the  evening  was  always  asleep,  should  be  laid  on  the 
couch  in  my  room  off  the  study,  with  the  'door  ajar,  so 
that  Sarah,  who  was  now  her  nurse,  might  wait  with  Stn 
easy  mind.  The  dinner  was  brought  in  by  the  outer 
door  of  the  study,  to  avoid  the  awkwardness  and  possi- 
ble disaster  of  the  private  precipice. 

The  principal  dish,  a  small  sirloin  of  beef,  was  at  the 
foot  of  the  table,  and  a  couple  of  boiled  fowls,  as  I 
thought,  before  me.  But  when  the  covers  were  re- 
moved, to  my  surprise  I  found  they  were  roasted. 

"  What  have  you  got  there,  Percivale  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Isn't  it  sirloin  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  an  adept  in  such  matters,"  he  replied.  "  I 
should  say  it  was." 

]\Iy  father  gave  a  glance  at  the  joint.  Something 
seemed  to  be  wrong.  I  rose  and  went  to  my  husband's 
side.  Powers  of  cuisine  !  Jemima  had  roasted  the  fowls, 
and  boiled  the  sirloin.  My  exclamation  was  the  signal 
for  an  outbreak  of  laughter,  led  by  my  father.  I  was 
trembling  in  the  balance  between  mortification  on  my 
own  account  and  sympathy  with  the  evident  amusement 
of  my  father  and  Mr.  Blackstone.  But  the  thought 
that  Mr.  Morley  might  have  been  and  was  not  of  the 
party  came  with  such  a  pang  and  such  a  relief,  that 
it  settled  the  point,  and  I  burst  out  laughing. 

"  I  dare  say  it's  all  right,"  said  Roger.  "  Why 
shouldn't  a  sirloin  be  boiled  as  well  as  roasted  ?  I  ven- 
ture to  assert  that  it  is  all  a  whim,  and  we  are  on  the 
verge  of  a  new  discoveiy  to  swell  the  number  of  those 
which  already  owe  their  being  to  blunders." 

"  Let  us  all  try  a  slice,  then,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone, 
"  and  compare  results.'' 

This  was  agreed  to ;  and  a  solemn  silence  followed, 
during  which  each  sought  acquaintance  with  the  new  dish. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,"  remarked  my  father,  speaking 
first,  "  that  Ivoger  is  all  wrong,  and  we  have  only  made 
the  discovery  that  custom  is  right.  It  is  plain  enough 
why  sirloin  is  always  roasted." 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  9] 

"  I  yield  myself  convinced,"  said  Roger. 

"  And  I  am  certain,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  *'  that  if  the 
loin  set  before  the  king,  whoever  he  was,  had  been  boiled, 
he  would  never  have  knighted  it." 

Thanks  to  the  loin,  the  last  possible  touch  of  con- 
straint had  vanished,  and  the  party  grew  a  very  merry 
one.  The  apple-pudding  which  followed  was  declared 
perfect,  and  eaten  up.  Percivale  produced  some  good 
wine  from  somewhere,  which  evidently  added  to  the  en- 
joj^ment  of  the  gentlemen,  my  father  included,  who 
likes  a  good  glass  of  wine  as  well  as  anybody.  But  a 
tiny  little  whimper  called  me  away,  and  Miss  Clare  ac- 
companied me  ;  the  gentlemen  insisting  that  we  should 
return  as  soon  as  possible,  and  bring  the  homuncle,  as 
Roger  called  the  baby,  with  us. 

When  we  returned,  the  two  clergymen  were  in  close 
conversation,  and  the  other  two  gentlemen  were  chiefly 
listening.     My  father  was  saying,  — 

*'  My  dear  sir,  1  don't  see  how  any  man  can  do  his 
duty  as  a  clergyman  who  doesn't  visit  his  parishioners." 

"  In  London  it  is  simply  impossible,"  returned  Mr. 
Blackstone.  "  In  the  country  you  are  welcome  where- 
ever  you  go ;  any  visit  I  might  pay  would  most  likely 
be  regarded  either  as  an  intrusion,  oi\,as  giving  the  right 
to  pecuniary  aid,  of  which  evils  the  latter  is  the  worse. 
There  are  portions  of  every  London  parish  which  clergy- 
men and  their  coadjutors  have  so  degraded  by  the  prac- 
tical teaching  of  beggary,  that  they  have  blocked  up 
every  door  to  a  healthy  spiritual  relation  between  them 
and  pastor  possible." 

"  Woukl  you  not  give  alms  at  all,  then?" 

"  One  thing,  at  least,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  upon, 
—  that  alms  from  any  but  the  hand  of  personal  friend- 
ship tend  to  evil,  and  will,  in  the  long  run,  increase  mis- 
ery." 

"  What,  then,  do  you  suppose  the  proper  relation  be- 
tween a  London  clergyman  and  his  parishioners  ?  " 

"  One,  I  am  afraid,  which  does  not  at  present  exist,  — 
one  which  it  is  his  first  business  perhaps  to  bring  about. 
I  confess  I  regard  with  a  repulsion  amounting  to  horroi 


92      ■  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

the  idea  of  walking  into  a  poor  man's  house,  except 
either  I  have  business  with  him,  or  desire  his  personal 
acquaintance." 

"  But  if  our  office  "  — 

"  Makes  it  my  business  to  serve  —  not  to  assume  au- 
thority over  them  especially  to  the  degree  of  forcing 
service  upon  them.  I  will  not  say  how  far  intimacy  may 
not  justify  you  in  immediate  assault  upon  a  man's  con- 
science ;  but  I  shrink  from  any  plan  that  seems  to  take 
it  for  granted  that  the  poor  are  more  wicked  than  the 
rich.  Why  don't  we  send  missionaries  to  Belgravia  ? 
The  outside  of  the  cup  and  platter  may  sometimes  be 
dirtier  than  the  inside." 

"  Your  missionary  could  hardly  force  his  way  through 
the  servants  to  the  boudoir  or  drawing-room." 

"And  the  poor  have  no  servants  to  defend  them," 

I  have  recorded  this  much  of  the  conversation  chiefly 
for  the  sake  of  introducing  Miss  Clare,  who  now  spoke. 

"  Don't  you  think,  sir,"  she  asked,  addressing  my  fa- 
ther, "  that  the  help  one  can  give  to  another  must  always 
depend  on  the  measure  in  which  one  is  free  one's  self  ?  " 

My  father  was  silent  —  thinking.  We  were  all  silent, 
I  said  to  myself,  "  There,  papa  !  that  is  something  after 
your  own  heart."  With  marked  deference  and  solem- 
nity he  answered  at  length,  — 

"  I  have  little  doubt  you  are  right,  Miss  Clare.  That 
puts  the  question  upon  its  own  eternal  foundation.  The 
mode  used  must  be  of  infinitely  less  importance  than  the 
person  who  uses  it." 

As  he  spoke,  he  looked  at  her  with  a  far  more  attentive 
regard  than  hitherto.  Indeed,  the  eyes  of  all  the  com- 
pany seemed  to  be  scanning  the  small  woman ;  but  she 
bore  the  scrutiny  well,  if  indeed  she  was  not  uncon- 
scious of  it ;  and  my  husband  began  to  find  out  one  of 
my  reasons  for  asking  her,  which  was  simply  that  he 
might  see  her  face.  At  this  moment  it  was  in  one  of  its 
higher  phases.  It  was,  at  its  best,  a  grand  face,  —  at  its 
worst,  a  suffering  face ;  a  little  too  large,  perhaps,  for 
the  small  body  which  it  crowned  witli  a  flame  of  soul ; 
but  while  you  saw  her  face  you  never  thought  of  the 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  93 

rest  of  her ;  and  her  attire  seemed  to  court  an  escape 
from  all  observation. 

"But,"  my  father  went  on,  looking  at  Mr.  Black- 
stone,  "  I  am  anxious  from  the  clergj'man's  point  of 
view,  to  know  what  my  friend  here  thinks  he  must  try 
to  do  in  his  very  diflScult  position." 

"I  think  the  best  thing  I  could  do,"  returned  Mr. 
Blackstone,  laughing,  "  would  be  to  go  to  school  to 
Miss  Clare." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  my  father  responded. 

"  But,  in  the  mean  time,  I  should  prefer  the  chap- 
laincy of  a  suburban  cemetery." 

"  Certainly  your  charge  would  be  a  less  troublesome 
one.  Your  congregation  would  be  quiet  enough,  at 
least,"  said  E-oger. 

" '  Then  are  they  glad  because  they  be  quiet,' "  said 
my  father,  as  if  unconsciously  uttering  his  own  reflections. 
But  he  was  a  little  cunning,  and  would  say  things  like 
that  when,  fearful  of  irreverence,  he  wanted  to'  turn  the 
current  of  the  conversation. 

"But,  surel}^,"  said  Miss  Clare,  "a  more  active  con- 
gregation would  be  quite  as  desirable." 

She  had  one  fault  — no,  defect :  she  was  slow  to  enter 
into  the  humor  of  a  thing.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  the 
first  aspect  of  anj^  bit  of  fun  presented  to  her  was  that 
of  something  wrong.  A  moment's  reflection,  however, 
almost  always  ended  in  a  sunny  laugh,  partly  at  her  own 
stupidity,  as  she  called  it. 

"  You  mistake  my  meaning,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone. 
"  My  chief,  almost  sole,  attraction  to  tlie  regions  of  the 
grave  is  the  sexton,  and  not  the  placidity  of  the  inhab- 
itants ;  though  perhaps  Miss  Clare  might  value  that 
more  highly  if  she  had  more  experience  of  how  noisy 
human  nature  can  be." 

Miss  Clare  gave  a  little  smile,  which  after-knowledge 
enabled  me  to  interpret  as  meaning,  "  Perhaps  I  do 
know  a  trifle  about  it;"  but  she  said  nothing. 

"  My  first  inquiry,"  he  went  on,  "before  accepting 
such  an  appointment,  would  be  as  to  the  character  and 
mental  habits  of  the  sexton.     If  I  found  him  a  mau 


94  TEE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

capable  of  rpgarding  human  naturfi  from  a  stand-point 
of  his  own,  I  should  close  with  the  offer  at  once.  If,  on 
the  contrary,  he  was  a  common-j^lace  man,  who  made 
faultless  responses,  and  cherished  the  friendship  of  th? 
undertaker,  I  should  decline.  In  fact,  I  should  regard 
the  sexton  as  my  proposed  master  ;  and  whether  I  sliould 
accept  the  place  or  not  would  depend  altogether  on 
whether  I  liked  him  or  not.  Think  what  revelations  of 
human  nature  a  real  man  in  such  a  position  could  give 
me  :  '  Hand  me  the  shovel.  You  stop  a  bit,  —  you're 
out  of  breath.  Sit  down  on  that  stone  there,  and  light 
your  pipe ;  here's  some  tobacco.  Now  tell  me  the  rest 
of  the  story.  How  did  the  old  fellow  get  on  after  he 
had  buried  his  termagant  wife  ?  '  That's  how  I  should 
treat  him  ;  and  I  should  get,  in  return,  such  a  succes- 
sion of  peeps  into  human  life  and  intent  and  aspirations, 
as,  in  the  course  of  a  few  years,  would  send  me  to  the 
next  vicarage  that  turned  up  a  sadder  and  wiser  man, 
Mr.  Walton." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  my  father ;  but  whether  in 
sympathy  with  Mr.  Blackstone,  or  in  latent  disapproval 
of  a  tone  judged  unbecoming  to  a  clergyman,  I  cannot 
tell.  Sometimes,  I  confess,  I  could  not  help  suspecting 
the  source  of  the  deficiency  in  humor  which  he  often 
complained  of  in  me ;  but  I  always  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  what  seemed  such  a  deficiency  in  him  was 
only  occasioned  by  the  presence  of  a  deeper  feeling. 

Miss  Clare  was  the  first  to  leave. 

"  What  a  lovely  countenance  that  is  !  "  said  my  hus- 
band, the  moment  she  was  out  of  hearing. 

"  She  is  a  very  remarkable  woman,"  said  my  father. 

"  I  suspect  she  knovs  a  good  deal  more  than  most  of 
us,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone.  "  Did  you  see  how  her  face 
lighted  up  always  before  she  said  any  thing  ?  You  can 
never  come  nearer  to  seeing  a  thought  than  in  her 
face  just  before  she  speaks." 

"  What  is  she  ?  "  asked  Roger. 

"  Can't  you  see  what  she  is  ?  "  returned  his  brother. 
"  She's  a  saint,  —  Saint  Clare." 

"If  you  had   been  a   Scotchman,  now/'  said  Roger 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  95 

"  that  fine  name  would  have  sunk  to  SbiJder  in  jour 
mouth." 

"  Not  a  more  vulgar  corruption,  however,  than  is  com- 
mon in  the  mouths  of  English  lords  and  ladies,  when 
they  turn  St.  John  into  Singen,  reminding  one  of  noth- 
ing but  the  French  for  an  ape,"  said  my  father. 

'*  But  what  does  she  do  ?  "  persisted  Roger. 

"Why  should  you  think  she  does  any  thing?"  I 
asked. 

"  She  looks  as  if  she  had  to  earn  her  own  living." 

"  She  does.     She  teaches  music." 

"  Why  didn't  you  ask  her  to  play  ?  " 

"  Because  this  is  the  first  time  she  has  been  to  the 
house." 

"  Does  she  go  to  church,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it ;  but  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Because  she  looks  as  if  she  didn't  want  it.  I  never 
saw  such  an  angelic  expression  upon  a  countenance." 

"  You  must  Irake  me  to  call  upon  her,"  said  my  father. 

"  I  will  with  pleasure,"  I  answered. 

I  found,  however,  that  this  was  easier  promised  than 
performed ;  for  I  had  asked  her  by  word  of  mouth  at 
Cousin  Judy's,  and  had  not  the  slightest  idea  where  she 
lived.  Of  course  T  applied  to  Judy ;  but  she  had  mis- 
laid her  address,  and,  promising  to  ask  her  for  it,  forgot 
more  than  once.  My  father  had  to  return  home  without 
aeeing  her  again. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  PICTURE. 

Things  went  on  very  quietly  for  some  time.  Of 
course  I  was  fully  occupied,  as  well  I  might  be,  with  a 
life  to  tend  and  cultivate  which  must  blossom  at  length 
into  the  human  flowers  of  love  and  obedience  and  faith. 
The  smallest  service  I  did  the  wonderful  thing  that  lay 
in  my  lap  seemed  a  something  in  itself  so  well  worth 
doing,  that  it  was  worth  living  to  do  it.  As  I  gazed  on 
the  new  creation,  so  far  beyond  my  understanding,  yet 
so  dependent  upon  me  while  asserting  an  absolute  and 
divine  right  to  all  I  did  for  her,  I  marvelled  that  God 
should  intrust  me  with  such  a  charge,  that  he  did  not 
keep  the  lovely  creature  in  his  own  arms,  and  refuse 
her  to  any  others.  Then  I  would  bethink  myself  that 
in  giving  her  into  mine,  he  had  not  sent  her  out  of  his 
own  ;  for  I,  too,  was  a  child  in  his  arms,  holding  and 
tending  my  live  doll,  until  it  should  grow  something  like 
me,  only  ever  so  much  better.  Was  she  not  given  to 
me  that  she  might  learn  what  I  had  begun  to  learn, 
namely,  that  a  willing  childhood  was  the  flower  of  life  ? 
How  can  any  mother  sit  with  her  child  on  her  lap  and 
not  know  that  there  is  a  God  over  all,  —  know  it  by  the 
rising  of  her  own  heart  in  prayer  to  him  ?  But  so  few 
have  had  parents  like  mine  !  If  my  mother  felt  thus 
when  I  lay  in  her  arms,  it  was  no  wonder  I  should  feel 
thus  when  my  child  lay  in  mine. 

Before  I  had  children  of  my  own,  I  did  not  care  about 
children,  and  therefore  did  not  understand  them  ;  but  I 
had  read  somewhere, — and  it  clung  to  me  although  I 
did  not  understand  it,  —  that  it  was  in  laying  hold  of 
the  heart  of  his  mother  that  Jesus  laid  his  lirst  hold  on 
9a 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  97 

tlie  world  to  redeem  it ;  and  now  at  length  I  began  to 
understand  it.     What  a  divine  way  of  saving  us  it  was, 

—  to  let  her  bear  him,  carry  him  in  her  bosom,  wash 
him  and  dress  him  and  nurse  him  and  sing  him  to  sleep, 

—  oifer  him  the  adoration  of  mother's  love,  misunder- 
stand him,  chide  him,  forgive  him  even  for  fancied 
wrong  !  Such  a  love  might  well  save  a  world  in  which 
were  mothers  enough.  It  was  as  if  he  had  said,  "  Ye 
shall  no  more  offer  vain  sacrifices  to  one  who  needs  them 
not,  and  cannot  use  them.  I  will  need  them,  so  require 
them  at  your  hands.  I  will  hunger  and  thirst  and  be 
naiied  and  cold,  and  ye  shall  minister  to  me.  Sacrifice 
shall  be  no  more  a  symbol,  but  a  real  giving  unto  God ; 
and  when  I  return  to  the  Father,  inasmuch  as  ye  do  it 
to  one  of  the  least  of  these,  ye  do  it  unto  me."  So  all 
the  world  is  henceforth  the  temple  of  God ;  its  worship 
is  ministration ;  the  commonest  service  is  divine  ser- 
vice. 

I  feared  at  first  that  the  new  strange  love  I  felt  in  my 
heart  came  only  of  the  fact  that  the  child  was  Perci- 
vale's  and  mine ;  but  T.  soon  found  it  had  a  far  deeper 
source,  —  that  it  sprung  from  the  very  humanity  of  the 
infant  woman,  yea,  from  her  relation  in  virtue  of  that 
humanity  to  the  Father  of  all.  The  fountain  appeared 
in  my  heart :  it  arose  from  an  infinite  store  in  the  un- 
seen. 

Soon,  however,  came  jealousj'^  of  my  love  for  my  baby. 
I  feared  lest  it  should  make  me  —  nay,  was  making  me 

—  neglect  my  husband.  The  fear  first  arose  in  me  one 
morning  as  I  sat  with  her  half  dressed  on  my  knees. 
I  was  dawdling  over  her  in  my  fondness,  as  I  used  to 
dawdle  over  the  dressing  of  my  doll,  when  suddenly  I 
became  aware  that  never  once  since  her  arrival  had  I 
sat  with  my  husband  in  his  study.  A  pang  of  dismay 
shot  through  me.  ^'  Is  this  to  be  a  wife  ?  "  I  said  to 
myself,  —  "  to  play  with  a  live  love  like  a  dead  doll, 
and  forget  her  husband  !  "  I  caught  up  a  blanket  from 
the  cradle,  —  I  am  not  going  to  throw  away  that  good 
old  word  for  the  ugly  outlandish  name  they  give  it  now, 
reminding  one  only  of  a  helmet,  —  I  caught  up  a  blanket 


98  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

from  the  cradle,  I  say,  wrapped  it  round  the  treasure, 
which  was  shooting  its  arms  and  legs  in  every  direction 
like  a  polypus  feeling  after  its  food,  —  and  rushed  down 
stairs,  and  down  the  precipice  into  the  stud3\  Fercivale 
started  up  in  terror,  thinking  something  fearful  had  hap- 
pened, and  I  was  bringing  him  all  that  was  left  of  the 
child. 

"  What  —  what  —  v/hat's  the  matter  ?  "  lie  gasped. 

I  could  not  while  he  was  thus  frightened  explain  to 
him  what  had  driven  me  to  him  in  such  alarming 
haste 

"  I've  brought  you  the  baby  to  kiss,"  I  said,  unfold- 
ing the  blanket,  and  holding  up  the  sprawling  little 
goddess  towards  the  face  that  towered  above  me. 

''  Was  it  dying  for  a  kiss  then  ?  "  he  said,  taking  her, 
blanket  and  all,  from  my  arms. 

The  end  of  the  blanket  swept  across  his  easel,  and 
smeared  the  face  of  the  baby  in  a  picture  of  the  Three 
Kings,  at  which  he  was  working. 

"  0  Percivale  !  "  I  cried,  "  you've  smeared  your  baby  ! " 

"  But  this  is  a  real  live  baby ;  she  may  smear  any 
thing  she  likes." 

*'  Except  her  own  face  and  hands,  please,  then,  Per- 
civale." 

"  Or  her  blessed  frock,"  said  Percivale.  "  She  hasn't 
got  one,  though.  Why  hasn't  the  little  angel  got  her 
feathers  on  yet  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  bring  her." 

"To  be  kissed?" 

"  No,  not  exactly.  It  wasn't  her  I  was  in  a  hurry  to 
bring  ;  it  was  myself." 

"  Ah  !  you  wanted  to  be  kissed,  did  you  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  I  didn't  want  to  be  kissed ;  but  I  did  so 
want  to  kiss  you,  Percivale." 

"  Isn't  it  all  the  same,  though,  darling  ? "  he  said. 
"  It  seems  so  to  me." 

"  Sometimes,  Percivale,  you  are  so  very  stupid  !  It's 
not  the  same  at  all.  There's  a  world  of  difference  be- 
tween the  two ;  and  you  ought  to  know  it,  or  be  told  it, 
if  you  don't." 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  99 

"  I  shall  think  it  over  as  soon  as  you  leave  me/'  he 
said. 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  leave  you  for  a  long  time.  1 
haven't  seen  you  paint  for  weeks  and  weeks,  —  not  since 
this  little  troublesome  thing  came  poking  in  between 
us." 

"  But  she's  not  dressed  yet." 

"That  doesn't  signify.  She's  well  wrapped  up,  and 
quite  warm." 

He  put  me  a  chair  where  I  could  see  his  picture 
without  catching  the  shine  of  the  paint.  I  took  the 
baby  from  him,  and  he  went  on  with  his  work. 

"  You  don't  think  I  am  going  to  sacrifice  all  my  privi- 
leges to  this  little  tyrant,  do  you  ?  "  I  said. 

"  It  would  be  rather  hard  for  me,  at  least,"  he  re- 
joined. 

"  You  did  think  I  was  neglecting  you,  then,  Perci- 
vale  ?  " 

"  Not  for  a  moment." 

"  Then  you  didn't  miss  me  ?  " 

"  I  did,  very  much." 

"  And  you  didn't  grumble  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Do  I  disturb  you  ?  "  I  asked,  after  a  little  pause. 
"  Can  you  paint  just  as  well  when  I  am  here  as  when 
you  are  alone  ?  " 

"  Better.     I  feel  warmer  to  my  work  somehow." 

I  was  satisfied,  and  held  my  peace.  When  I  am  best 
pleased  I  don't  want  to  talk.  But  Percivale,  perhaps 
not  having  found  this  out  yet,  looked  anxiously  in  my 
face  ;  and,  as  at  the  moment  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  his 
picture,  I  thought  he  wanted  to  find  out  whether  I  liked 
the  design. 

"  I  see  it  now  ! "  I  cried.  "  I  could  not  make  out 
where  the  Magi  were." 

He  had  taken  for  the  scene  of  his  picture  an  old  farm 
kitchen,  or  yeoman's  hall,  with  its  rich  brown  rafters,  its 
fire  on  the  hearth,  and  its  red  brick  floor.  A  tub  half 
full  of  bright  water  stood  on  one  side ;  and  the  mother 
was  bending  over  her  baby,  which,  undressed  for  the 


100  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

bath,  she  was  holding  out  for  the  admiration  of  tht 
Magi.  Immediately  behind  the  mother  stood,  in  the 
garb  of  a  shepherd,  my  father,  leaning  on  the  ordinary 
shepherd's  crook;  my  mother,  like  a  peasant-woman  in 
her  Sunday-best,  with  a  white  handkerchief  crpssed 
upon  her  bosom,  stood  beside  him,  and  both  were  gazing 
with  a  chastened  yet  profound  pleasure  on  the  lovely  child. 

In  front  stood  two  boys  and  a  girl,  —  between  the  ages 
of  five  and  nine,  —  gazing  each  with  a  peculiar  won- 
dering delight  on  the  baby.  The  youngest  boy,  with  a 
great  spotted  wooden  horse  in  his  hand,  was  approach- 
ing to  embrace  the  infant  in  such  fashion  as  made  the 
toy  look  dangerous,  and  the  left  hand  of  the  mother  was 
Ifted  with  a  motion  of  warning  and  defence.  The  little 
girl,  the  next  youngest,  had,  in  her  absorption,  dropped 
her  gaudily  dressed  doll  at  her  feet,  and  stood  sucking 
her  thumb,  her  big  blue  eyes  wide  with  contemplation. 
The  eldest  boy  had  brought  his  white  rabbit  to  give  the 
baby,  but  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  so  full  was  his 
heart  of  his  new  brother.  An  expression  of  mingled 
love  and  wonder  and  perplexity  had  already  begun  to 
dawn  upon  the  face,  but  it  was  as  yet  far  from  fin- 
ished. He  stood  behind  the  other  two  peeping  over  their 
heads. 

"  Were  you  thinking  of  that  Titian  in  the  Louvre, 
with  the  white  rabbit  in  it  ?  "  I  asked  Percivale. 

"  I  did  not  think  of  it  until  after  I  had  put  in  the 
rabbit,"  he  replied.  "  And  it  shall  remain  ;  for  it  suits 
my  purpose,  and  Titian  would  not  claim  all  the  white 
rabbits  because  of  that  one." 

"  Did  you  think  of  the  black  lamb  in  it,  then,  when 
you  laid  that  black  pussy  on  the  hearth  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Black  lamb  ?  "  he  returned. 

"  Yes,"  I  insisted  ;  "  a  black  lamb,  in  the  dark  back- 
ground —  such  a  very  black  lamb,  and  in  such  a  dark 
background,  that  it  seems  you  never  discovered  it." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  Absolutely  certain,"  I  replied.  "I  pointed  it  out  to 
papa  in  the  picture  itself  in  the  Louvre ;  he  had  not  ob- 
served it  before  either." 


THE   n CAR'S  DAUGHTER.  101 

"I  am  very  glad  to  know  there  is  such  a  thing  there. 
I  need  not  answer  your  question,  you  see.  It  is  odd 
enough  I  should  have  put  in  the  black  puss.  Upon 
some  grounds  I  might  argue  that  my  puss  is  better 
than  Titian's  lamb." 

"  What  grounds  ?  tell  me." 

"  If  the  painter  wanted  a  contrast,  a  lamb,  be  he  as 
black  as  ever  paint  could  make  him,  must  still  be  a  more 
Christian  animal  than  a  cat  as  white  as  snow.  Under 
what  pretence  could  a  cat  be  used  for  a  Christian  sym- 
bol?" 

"  What  do  you  make  of  her  playfulness  ?  " 

"  I  should  count  that  a  virtue,  were  it  not  for  the  fatal 
objection  that  it  is  always  exercised  at  the  expense  of 
other  creatures." 

"  A  ball  of  string,  or  a  reel,  or  a  bit  of  paper,  is 
enough  for  an  uncorrupted  kitten." 

"  But  you  must  not  forget  that  it  serves  only  iu 
virtue  of  the  creature's  imagination  representing  it  as 
alive.  If  you  do  not  make  it  move,  she  will  herself  set 
it  iu  motion  as  the  initiative  of  the  game.  If  she  can- 
not do  that,  she  will  take  no  notice  of  it." 

"  Yes,  I  see.     I  give  in." 

All  this  time  he  had  been  painting  diligently.  He 
could  now  combine  talking  and  painting  far  better  than 
he  used.  But  a  knock  came  to  the  study  door;  and, 
remembering  baby's  unpresentable  condition,  I  huddled 
her  up,  climbed  the  stair  again,  and  finished  the  fledging 
of  my  little  angel  in  a  very  happy  frame  of  mind. 


8* 


CHAPTER   XV 

RUMORS. 

Hardly  was  it  completed,  when  Cousin  Judy  called, 
and  I  went  down  to  see  her,  carrying  my  baby  with 
me.  As  I  went,  something  put  me  in  mind  that  I  must 
ask  her  for  Miss  Clare's  address.  Lest  I  should  again 
forget,  as  soon  as  she  had  kissed  and  admired  the  baby, 
I  said,  — 

"  Have  you  found  out  yet  where  Miss  Clare  lives, 
Judy  ?  " 

"  I  don't  choose  to  find  out,"  she  answered.  "  I  am 
sorry  to  say  I  have  had  to  give  her  up.  It  is  a  disap- 
pointment, I  cr>nfess." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  said.  "  I  thought  you  con- 
sidered her  a  very  good  teacher." 

"  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  her  on  that  score.  She 
was  always  punctual,  and  I  must  allow  both  played  well 
and  taught  the  children  delightfully.  But  I  have  heard 
such  questionable  things  about  her !  —  very  strange 
things  indeed ! " 

''  What  are  they  ?  " 

'•  I  can't  say  I've  been  able  to  fix  on  more  than  one 
thing  directly  against  her  character,  but  "  — 

''  Against  her  character  !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  She  lives  by  herself  in  lodgings,  and 
the  house  is  not  at  all  a  respectable  one." 

"  But  have  you  made  no  further  inquiry  ?  " 

"  1  consider  that  quite  enough.  I  had  already  met 
more  than  one  person,  however,  who  seemed  to  think  it 
very  odd  that  I  should  have  her  to  teach  music  in  my 
family." 

"  Did  they  give  any  reason  for  thinking  her  unfit  ?  " 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  103 

"  I  did  not  choose  to  ask  them.  One  was  Miss  Clarke 
■ —  you  know  her.  She  smiled  in  her  usual  supercilious 
manner,  but  in  her  case  I  believe  it  was  only  because 
Miss  Clare  looks  so  dowdy.  But  nobody  knows  any 
thing  about  her  except  what  I've  just  told  you." 

"  And  who  told  you  that  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Jeffreson." 

"  But  you  once  told  me  that  she  was  a  great  gossip." 

"Else  she  wouldn't  have  heard  it.  But  that  doesn't 
make  it  untrue.  In  fact,  she  convinced  me  of  its  truth, 
for  she  knows  the  place  she  lives  in,  and  assured  me  it 
was  at  great  risk  of  infection  to  the  children  that  I 
allowed  her  to  enter  the  house  ;  and  so,  of  course,  I  felt 
compelled  to  let  her  know  that  I  didn't  require  her 
services  any  longer." 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake,  surely  !  "  I  said. 
*  "  Oh,  no  !  not  the  least,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"  How  did  she  take  it  ?'" 

"  Very  sweetly  indeed.  She  didn't  even  ask  me  why, 
which  was  just  as  well,  seeing  I  should  have  found  it 
awkward  to  tell  her.  But  I  suppose  she  knew  too  many 
grounds  herself  to  dare  the  question." 

I  was  dreadfully  sorry,  but  I  could  not  say  much  more 
then.  I  ventured  only  to  express  my  conviction  that 
there  could  not  be  any  charge  to  bring  against  Miss 
Clare  herself;  for  that  one  who  looked  and  spoke  as  she 
did  could  have  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  Judy,  how- 
ever, insisted  that  what  she  had  heard  was  reason  enough 
for  at  least  ending  the  engagement ;  indeed,  that  no 
one  was  fit  for  such  a  situation  of  whom  such  things 
could  be  said,  whether  they  were  true  or  not. 

When  she  left  me,  I  gave  baby  to  her  nurse,  and  went 
straight  to  the  study,  peeping  in  to  see  if  Percivale  was 
alone. 

He  caught  sight  of  me,  and  called  to  me  to  como 
down. 

"  It's  only  Roger,"  he  said. 

I  was  always  pleased  to  see  Roger.  He  was  a 
strange  creature,  —  one  of  those  gifted  men  who  are 
capable  of  any  thing,  if  not  of    every  thing,  and  yet 


104  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

carry  nothing  within  sight  of  proficiency.  He  whistled 
like  a  starling,  and  accompanied  his  whistling  on  the 
piano ;  but  never  played.  He  could  copy  a  drawing  to 
a  hair's-breadth,  but  never  drew.  He  could  engrav^e 
well  on  wood  ;  but  although  he  had  often  been  employid 
in  that  way,  he  had  always  got  tired  of  it  after  a  few 
weeks.  He  was  forever  wanting  to  do  something  other 
than  what  he  was  at ;  and  the  moment  he  got  tired  of 
a  thing,  he  would  work  at  it  no  longer  ;  for  he  had  never 
learned  to  make  himself.  He  would  come  every  day  to 
the  study  for  a  week  to  paint  in  backgrounds,  or  make  a 
duplicate;  and  then,  perhaps,  we  wouldn't  see  him  for  a 
fortnight.  At  other  times  he  would  work,  say  for  a 
month,  modelling,  or  carving  marble,  for  a  sculptor 
friend,  from  whom  he  might  have  had  constant  employ- 
ment if  he  had  pleased.  He  had  given  lessons  in  various 
branches,  for  he  was  an  excellent  scholar,  and  had  the  - 
finest  ear  for  verse,  as  well  as  the  keenest  appreciation 
of  the  loveliness  of  poetry,  that  I  have  ever  known. 
He  had  stuck  to  this  longer  than  to  any  thing  else, 
strange  to  say;  for  one  would  have  thought  it  the  least 
attractive  of  employments  to  one  of  his  volatile  disposi- 
tion. For  some  time  indeed  he  had  supported  himself 
comfortably  in  this  way ;  for  through  friends  of  his  fami- 
ly he  had  had  good  introductions,  and,  although  ho 
wasted  a  good  deal  of.  money  in  buying  nick-nacks  that 
promised  to  be  useful  and  seldom  were,  he  had  no  ob- 
jectionable habits  except  inordinate  smoking.  But  it 
happened  that  a  pupil  —  a  girl  of  imaginative  disposi- 
tion, I  presume  —  fell  so  much  in  love  with  him  that 
she  betrayed  her  feelings  to  her  countess-mother,  and 
the  lessons  were  of  course  put  an  end  to.  I  suspect  he 
did  not  escape  heart-whole  himself;  for  he  immediately 
dropped  all  his  other  lessons,  and  took  to  writing  poetry 
for  a  new  magazine,  which  proved  of  ephemeral  consti- 
tution, and  vanished  after  a  few  months  of  hectic  exist- 
ence. 

It  was  remarkable  that  with  such  instability  his  moral 
nature  should  continue  uncorrupted ;  but  this  I  believe 
he  owed  chiefly  to  his  love  and  admiration  of  his  brother. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  105 

For  my  part,  I  could  not  help  liking  him  much.  There 
was  a  half-plaintive  playfulness  about  him,  alternated 
with  gloom,  and  occasionally  with  wild  merriment,  which 
made  him  interesting  even  when  one  felt  most  inclined 
to  quarrel  with  him.  The  worst  of  him  was  that  lie 
considered  himself  a  generally  misunderstood,  if  not  ill- 
used  man,  who  could  not  only  distinguish  himself,  but 
render  valuable  service  to  society,  if  only  society  would 
do  him  the  justice  to  give  him  a  chance.  Were  it  only, 
however,  for  his  love  to  my  baby,  I  could  not  but  be 
ready  to  take  up  his  defence.  When  I  mentioned  what 
I  had  just  heard  about  Miss  Clare,  Percivale  looked 
both  astonished  and  troubled  ;  but  before  he  could  speak, 
Roger,  with  the  air  of  a  man  of , the  world  whom  experi- 
ence enabled  to  come  at  once  to  a  decision,  said, — 

"  Depend  upon  it,  Wynnie,  there  is  falsehood  there 
somewhere.  You  will  always  be  nearer  the  truth  if  you 
believe  nothing,  than  if  you  believe  the  half  of  what 
you  hear." 

"  That's  very  much  what  papa  says,"  I  answered. 
"He  affirms  that  he  never  searched  into  an  injurious 
report  in  his  own  parish  without  finding  it  so  nearly 
false  as  to  deprive  it  of  all  right  to  go  about." 

"  Besides,"  said  Roger,  "  look  at  that  face  !  How  I 
should  like  to  model  it.  She's  a  good  woman  that,  de- 
pend upon  it." 

I  was  delighted  with  bis  enthusiasm. 

"I  wish  you  would  ask  her  again,  as  soon  as  you 
can,"  said  Percivale,  who  always  tended  to  embody  his 
conclusions  in  acts  rather  than  in  words.  "  Your  cousin 
Judy  is  a  jolly  good  creature,  but  from  your  father's  de- 
scription of  her  as  a  girl,  she  must  have  grown  a  good 
deal  more  worldly  since  her  marriage.  Respectability  is 
an  awful  snare." 

"  Yes,"  said  Roger ;  "  one  ought  to  be  very  thankful 
to  be  a  Bohemian,  and  have  nothing  expected  of  him, 
for  respectability  is  a  most  fruitful  mother  of  stupidity 
and  injustice." 

I  could  not  help  thinking  thai  he  might,  however, 
have  a  little  more  and  be  none  the  worse. 


]06  TEE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"I  should  be  very  glad  to  do  as  you  desire,  hus- 
band," I  said,  "but  how  can  I?  I  haven't  learned 
where  she  lives.  It  was  asking  Judy  for  her  address 
once  more  that  brought  it  all  out.  I  certainly  didn't 
insist,  as  I  might  have  done,  notwithstanding  what  she 
told  me  ;  but,  if  she  didn't  remember  it  before,  you  may 
be  sure  she  could  not  have  given  it  me  then." 

"  It's  very  odd,"  said  Roger,  stroking  his  long  mus- 
tache, the  sole  ornament  of  the  kind  he  wore.  "  It's  very 
odd,"  he  repeated  thoughtfully,  and  then  paused  again. 

"  What's  so  very  odd,  Roger  ?  "  asked  Percivale. 

"The  other  evening,"  answered  Roger,  after  yet  a 
short  pause,  "happening  to  be  in  Tottenham  Court 
Road,  I  walked  for  some  distance  behind  a  young  woman 
carrying  a  brown  beer-jug  in  her  hand  —  for  I  some- 
times amuse  myself  in  the  street  by  walking  persistently 
behind  some  one,  devising  the  unseen  face  in  my  mind, 
until  the  recognition  of  the  same  step  following  causes 
the  person  to  look  round  at  me,  and  give  me  the  oppor- 
tunity of  comparing  the  two —  I  mean  the  one  1  had  de- 
vised and  the  real  one.  When  the  young  woman  at 
length  turned  her  head,  it  was  only  my  astonishment 
that  kept  me  from  addressing  her  as  Miss  Clare.  My 
surprise,  however,  gave  me  time  to  see  how  absurd  it 
would  have  been.  Presently  she  turned  down  a  yard 
and  disappeared." 

"  Don't  tell  my  cousin  Judy,"  I  said.  "  She  would 
believe  it  was  Miss  Clare." 

"  There  isn't  much  danger,"  he  returned.  "  Even  if 
I  knew  your  cousin,  I  should  not  be  likely  to  mention 
such  an  incident  in  her  hearing." 

"  Could  it  have  been  she  ?  "  said  Percivale  thought- 
fully. 

"  Absurd ! "  said  Roger.  "  Miss  Clare  is  a  lady, 
wherever  she  may  live." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  his  brother  thoughtfully  ;  "  who 
can  tell  ?  It  mightn't  have  been  beer  she  was  carry- 
ing." 

"  I  didn't  say  it  was  beer,"  returned  Roger.  "  I  only 
said  it  was  a  beer-jug,  —  one  of  those  brown,  squat,  stone 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  107 

jugs,  —  the  best  for  beer  that  I  know,  after  all,  —  brown, 
you  know,  with  a  dash  of  gray." 

''Brown  jug  or  not,  I  wish  I  could  get  a  few  sittings 
from  her.  She  would  make  a  lovely  St.  Cecilia,"  said 
my  husband. 

"Brown  jug  and  all?  "  asked  Roger. 

"  If  only  she  were  a  little  taller,"  I  objected. 

"  And  had  an  aureole,"  said  my  husband.  '•  But  I 
might  succeed  in  omitting  the  jug  as  well  as  in  adding 
the  aureole  and  another  half-foot  of  stature,  if  only  I 
could  get  that  lovely  countenance  on  the  canvas,  —  so 
full  of  life  and  yet  of  repose." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  a  little  hard?"  I  ventured  to 
say. 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Roger. 

"  I  don't,"  said  my  husband.  "  I  know  what  in  it 
looks  like  hardness ;  but  I  think  it  comes  of  the  repres- 
sion of  feeling." 

"  You  have  studied  her  well  for  your  opportunities,"  I 
said. 

''  I  have ;  and  I  am  sure,  whatever  Mrs.  Morley  may 
say,  that,  if  there  be  any  truth  at  all  in  those  reports, 
there  is  some  satisfactory  explanation  of  whatever  has 
given  rise  to  them.  I  wish  we  knew  anybody  else  that 
knew  her.     Do  try  to  find  some  one  that  does,  Wynnie." 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  set  about  it,"  I  said.  "  I  should 
be  only  too  glad." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Roger.     "  Does  she  sing  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  Judy  say  she  sang  divinely  ;  but  the 
only  occasion  on  which  I  met  her  —  at  their  house,  that 
time  you  couldn't  go,  Percivale  —  she  was  never  asked 
to  sing." 

'"  I  suspect,"  remarked  Roger,  "  it  will  turn  out  to  be 
only  that  she's  something  of  a  Bohemian,  like  our- 
selves." 

"Thank  you,  Roger;  but  for  my  part,  I  don't  con- 
sider myself  a  Bohemian  at  all,"  I  said. 

"  I  am  afraid  you.  must  rank  with  your  husband, 
wifie,"  said  viine,  as  the  wives  of  the  working  people  of 
London  often  call  their  husbands. 


108  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Then  you  do  count  yourself  a  Bohemian  :  pray,  what 
significance  do  you  attach  to  the  epithet  ?  "  I  asked, 

"I  don't  know,  except  it  signifies  our  resemblance  to 
the  gypsies,"  he  answered. 

"  I  don't  understand  you  quite." 

"  I  believe  the  gypsies  used  to  be  considered  Bohe- 
mians," interposed  Roger,  "  though  they  are  doubtless 
of  Indian  origin.  Their  usages  being  quite  different 
from  those  amongst  which  they  live,  the  name  Bohemian 
came  to  be  applied  to  painters,  musicians,  and  such  like 
generally,  to  whom,  save  by  courtes}',  no  position  has 
yet  been  accorded  by  society  —  so  called." 

"  But  why  have  they  not  yet  vindicated  for  them- 
selves a  social  position,"  I  asked,  ''and  that  a  high 
one?" 

"  Because  they  are  generally  poor,  I  suppose,"  he  an- 
swered ;  "  and  society  is  generally  stupid." 

"  May  it  not  be  because  they  are  so  often,  like  the 
gypsies,  lawless  in  their  behavior,  as  well  as  peculiar  in 
their  habits  ?  "  I  suggested. 

"  I  understand  you  perfectly,  Mrs.  Percivale,"  rejoined 
Roger  with  mock  offence.  "But  how  would  that  apply 
to  Charlie?" 

"  Not  so  well  as  to  jou,  I  confess,"  I  answered. 
"But  there  is  ground  for  it  with  him  too." 

"  I  have  thought  it  all  over  many  a  time,"  said  Perci- 
vale ;  "  and  I  suppose  it  comes  in  part  from  inability 
to  understand  the  worth  of  our  calling,  and  in  part  from 
the  difficulty  of  knowing  where  to  put  us." 

"  I  suspect,"  I  said,  "  one  thing  is  that  so  many  of 
them  are  content  to  be  received  as  merely  painters,  or 
whatever  they  may  be  by  profession.  Many,  you  have 
told  me,  for  instance,  accept  invitations  which  do  not 
include  their  wives." 

"  They  often  go  to  parties,  of  course,  where  there  are 
no  ladies,"  said  Roger. 

''  That  is  not  what  I  mean,"  I  replied.  "  They  go 
to  diuner-parties  where  there  are  ladies,  and  evening 
parties,  too,  without  their  wives." 

"  Whoever  does  that,"  said  Percivale,  "  has  at  least  no 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  109 

right  to  complain  that  he  is  regarded  as  a  Bohemian  ; 
for  in  accepting  such  invitations,  he  accepts  insult,  and 
himself  insults  his  wife." 

Nothing  irritated  my  bear  so  much  as  to  be  asked  to 
dinner  without  me.  He  would  not  even  offer  the  shadow 
of  a  reason  for  declining  the  invitation.  "For,"  he 
would  saj,  "  if  I  give  the  real  reason,  namely,  that  I  do 
not  choose  to  go  where  my  wife  is  excluded,  they  will 
set  it  down  to  her  jealous  ambition  of  entering  a  sphere 
beyond  her  reach  ;  I  will  not  give  a  false  reason,  and  in- 
deed have  no  objection  to  their  seeing  that  I  am  of- 
fended ;  therefore,  I  assign  none.  If  they  have  any 
chivalry  in  them,  they  may  find  out  my  reason  readily 
enough." 

I  don't  think  I  ever  displeased  him  so  much  as  once 
when  I  entreated  him  to  accept   an  invitation  to  dine 

with  the  Earl  of  H .       The  fact  was,  I  had   been 

fancying  it  my  duty  to  persuade  him  to  get  over  his  of- 
fence at  the  omission  of  my  name,  for  the  sake  of  the 
advantage  it  would  be  to  him  in  his  profession.  I  laid 
it  before  him  as  gently  and  coaxingly  as  I  could,  repre- 
senting how  expenses  increased,  and  how  the  children 
would  be  requiring  education  by  and  by,  —  reminding 
him  that  the  reputation  of  more  than  one  of  the  most 
popular  painters  had  been  brought  about  in  some  meas- 
ure by  their  social  qualities  and  the  friendships  they 
made. 

"  Is  it  likely  your  children  will  be  ladies  and  gentle- 
men," he  said,  "  if  you  prevail  on  their  father  to  play  the 
part  of  a  sneaking  parasite?" 

I  was  frightened.  He  had  never  spoken  to  me  in 
such  a  tone,  but  I  saw  too  well  how  deeply  he  was  hurt 
to  take  offence  at  his  roughness.  I  could  only  beg  him 
to  forgive  me,  and  promise  never  to  say  such  a  word 
again,  assuring  him  that  I  believed  as  strongly  as 
himself  that  the  best  heritage  of  children  was  their 
father's  honor. 

Free  from  any  such  clogs  as  the  possession  of  a  wife 
encumbers  a  husband  withal,  Roger  could  of  course  ac- 
cept what  invitations  his  *»onnectiou  with  an  old  and 

10 


110  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

honorable  family  procured  him.  One  evening  he  came 
in  late  from  a  dinner  at  Lady  Bernard's. 

"  Whom  do  you  think  I  took  down  to  dinner  ?  "  he 
asked,  almost  before  he  was  seated. 

"  Lady  Bernard  ?  "  I  said,  flying  high. 

"  Her  dowager  aunt  ?  "  said  Percivale. 

"No,  no;  Miss  Clare." 

"  Miss  Clare  ! "  we  both  repeated,  with  mingled  ques- 
tion and  exclamation. 

"Yes,  Miss  Clare,  incredible  as  it  may  appear,"  he 
answered. 

"  Did  you  ask  her  if  it  was  she  you  saw  carrying  the 
jug  of  beer  in  Tottenham  Court  Road?"  said  Percivale. 

"  Did  you  ask  her  address  ? "  I  said.  "  That  is  a 
question  more  worthy  of  an  answer." 

"  Yes,  I  did.     I  believe  I  did.     I  think  I  did." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 

"So,  Mr.  Roger!  You  have  had  a  perfect  opportu- 
nity, and  have  let  it  slip  !  You  are  a  man  tc  be  trusted 
indeed ! " 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  could  have  been.  I  distinctly 
remember  approaching  the  subject  more  than  once  or 
twice  ;  and  now  first  I  discover  that  I  never  asked  the 
question.     Or  if  I  did,  I  am  certain  I  got  no  answer." 

"Bewitched!" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"  Or,"  suggested  Percivale,  "  she  did  not  choose  to 
tell  you ;  saw  the  question  coming,  and  led  you  away 
from  it ;  never  let  you  ask  it." 

"  I  have  heard  that  ladies  can  keep  one  from  saying 
what  they  don't  want  to  hear.  But  she  sha'n't  escape 
me  so  a  second  time." 

"  Indeed,  you  don't  deserve  another  chance,"  I  said. 
"  You're  not  half  so  clever  as  I  took  you  to  be,  Roger." 

"  When  I  think  of  it,  though,  it  wasn't  a  question 
so  easy  to  ask,  or  one  you  would  like  to  be  overheard 
asking." 

"  Clearly  bewitched,"  I  said.  "  But  for  that  I  forgive 
you.     Did  she  sing  ?  " 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  m 

"  No.  I  don't  suppose  any  one  there  ever  thought  of 
asking  such  a  dingy-feathered  bird  to  sing." 

"  You  had  some  music  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  Pretty  good,  and  very  bad.  Miss  Clare's 
forehead  was  crossed  by  no  end  of  flickering  shadows  as 
she  listened." 

"  It  wasn't  for  want  of  interest  in  her  you  forgot  to  find 
out  where  she  lived  !  You  had  better  take  care,  Master 
Koger." 

"  Take  care  of  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  don't  know  her  address." 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  taking  care  ?  " 

"  That  you  won't  know  where  to  find  your  heart  if 
you  should  happen  to  want  it." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  past  that  kind  of  thing  long  ago.  You've 
made  an  uncle  of  me." 

And  so  on,  with  a  good  deal  more  nonsense,  but  no 
news  of  Miss  Clare's  retreat. 

I  had  before  this  remarked  to  my  husband  that  it  was 
odd  shd  had  never  called  since  dining  with  us ;  but  he 
made  little  of  it,  saying  that  people  who  gained  their 
own  livelihood  ought  to  be  excused  from  attending  to 
rules  which  had  their  origin  with  another  class  ;  and  I 
had  thought  no  more  about  it,  save  in  disappointment 
that  she  had  not  given  me  that  opportunity  of  improving 
my  acquaintance  with  her. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  DISCOVERT. 

One  Saturday  night,  my  husband  happening  to  be 
out,  an  event  of  rare  occurrence,  Roger  called ;  and  as 
there  were  some  things  I  had  not  been  able  to  get  dur- 
ing the  day,  I  asked  him  to  go  with  me  to  Tottenham 
Court  Road.  It  was  not  far  from  the  region  where  we 
lived,  and  I  did  a  great  part  of  my  small  shopping  there. 
The  early  closing  had,  if  I  remember  rightly,  begun  to 
show  itself;  anyhow,  several  of  the  shops  were  shut,  and 
we  walked  a  long  way  down  the  street,  looking  for  some 
place  likely  to  supply  what  I  required. 

"It  was  just  here  I  came  up  with  the  girl  and  the 
brown  jug,"  said  Roger,  as  we  reached  the  large  dis- 
senting chapel. 

"  That  adventure  seems  to  have  taken  a  great  hold  of 
you,  Roger,"  I  said. 

"  She  was  so  like  Miss  Clare  ! "  he  returned.  "  I 
can't  get  the  one  face  clear  of  the  other.  When  I  met 
her  at  Lady  Bernard's,  the  first  thing  I  thought  of  waa 
the  brown  jug." 

"  Were  you  as  much  pleased  with  her  conversation  as 
at  our  house  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Even  more,"  he  answered.  "  I  found  her  ideas  of 
art  so  wide,  as  well  as  just  and  accurate,  that  I  wa'i  puz- 
zled to  think  where  she  had  had  opportunity  of  develop- 
ing tbem.  I  questioned  her  about  it,  and  found  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  going,  as  often  as  she  could  spare  time, 
to  the  National  Gallery,  where  her  custom  was,  she 
said,  not  to  pass  from  picture  to  picture,  but  keep  to 
one  until  it  formed  itself  in  her  mind,  —  that  is  the  ex- 
pression she  used,  explaining  herself  to  mean,  until  she 

112 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  113 

seemed  to  know  what  the  painter  had  set  himself  to  do, 
and  why  this  was  and  that  was  which  she  could  not  at 
first  understand.  Clearlj'-,  without  ever  having  taken  a 
pencil  in  her  hand,  she  has  educated  herself  to  a  keen 
perception  of  what  is  demanded  of  a  true  picture.  Of 
course  the  root  of  it  lies  in  her  musical  development.  — 
There,"  he  cried  suddenly,  as  we  came  opposite  a  paved 
passage,  "  that  is  the  place  I  saw  her  go  down." 

"Then  j^ou  do  think  the  girl  with  the  beer-jug  was 
Miss  Clare,  after  all  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  I  told  you  I  could  not  separate 
them  in  my  mind." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  it  seems  odd.  A  girl  like  that 
and  Miss  Clare  !  Why,  as  often  as  you  speak  of  the 
one,  you  seem  to  think  of  the  other." 

"  In  fact,"  he  returned,  "  I  am,  as  I  say,  unable  to 
dissociate  them.  But  if  you  had  seen  the  girl,  you 
would  not  wonder.  The  likeness  was  absolutely  com- 
plete." 

"  I  believe  you  do  consider  them  one  and  the  same  ; 
and  I  am  more  than  half  inclined  to  think  so  myself^ 
remembering  what  Judy  said." 

"  Isn't  it  possible  some  one  who  knows  Miss  Clare 
may  have  seen  this  girl,  and  been  misled  by  the  like- 
ness ?  " 

"But  where,  then,  does  Miss  Clare  live?  Nobody 
seems  to  know." 

"  You  have  never  asked  any  one  but  Mrs.  Morley." 

"  You  have  yourself,  however,  given  me  reason  to 
think  she  avoids  the  subject.  If  she  did  live  anywhere 
hereabout,  she  would  have  some  cause  to  avoid  it." 

I  had  stopped  to  look  down  the  passage. 

"  Suppose,"  said  Roger,  "  some  one  were  to  come  past 
now  and  see  Mrs.  Percivale,  the  wife  of  the  celebrated 
painter,  standing  in  Tottenham  Court  Road  beside  the 
swing-door  of  a  corner  public-house,  talking  to  a  young 
man." 

"  Yes ;  it  might  have  given  occasion  for  scandal,"  I 
said.  "  To  avoid  it,  let  us  go  down  the  court  and  see 
what  it  is  like." 


114  THE   n CAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  It's  not  a  fit  place  for  you  to  go  into." 

"  If  it  were  in  my  father's  parish,  I  should  have  known 
everybody  in  it." 

"  You  haven't  the  slightest  idea  what  you  are  say- 
ing." 

"  Come,  anyhow,  and  let  us  see  what  the  place  is 
like,"  I  insisted. 

Without  another  word  he  gave  me  his  arm,  and  down 
the  court  we  went,  past  the  flaring  gin-shop,  and  into 
the  gloom  beyond.  It  was  one  of  those  places  of  which, 
while  the  general  effect  remains  vivid  in  one's  mind,  the 
salient  points  are  so  few  that  it  is  difficult  to  say  much 
by  way  of  description.  The  houses  had  once  been  occu- 
pied by  people  in  better  circumstances  than  its  present 
inhabitants ;  and  indeed  they  looked  all  decent  enough 
until,  turning  two  right  angles,  we  came  upon  another 
sort.  They  were  still  as  large,  and  had  plenty  of  win- 
dows ;  but,  in  the  light  of  a  single  lamp  at  the  corner, 
they  looked  very  dirty  and  wretched  and  dreary.  A 
little  shop,  with  dried  herrings  and  bull's-eyes  in  the 
window,  was  lighted  by  a  tallow  candle  set  in  a  ginger- 
beer  bottle,  with  a  card  of  "Kinahan's  LL  Whiskey'* 
for  a  reflector. 

"  They  can't  have  many  customers  to  the  extent  of  a 
bottle,"  said  Eoger.  "But  no  doubt  they  have  some 
privileges  from  the  public-house  at  the  corner  for  hang- 
ing up  the  card." 

The  houses  had  sunk  areas,  just  wide  enough  for  a 
stair,  and  the  basements  seemed  full  of  tenants.  There 
was  a  little  wind  blowing,  so  that  the  atmosphere  was 
tolerable,  notwithstanding  a  few  stray  leaves  of  cab- 
bage, suggestive  of  others  in  a  more  objectionable  con- 
dition not  far  off". 

A  confused  noise  of  loud  voices,  calling  and  scolding, 
hitherto  drowned  by  the  tumult  of  the  street,  now 
reached  our  ears.  The  place  took  one  turn  more,  and 
then  the  origin  of  it  became  apparent.  At  the  farther 
end  of  the  passage  was  another  lamp,  the  light  of  which 
shone  upon  a  group  of  men  and  women,  in  altercation, 
which  had  not  yet  come  to  blows.     It  might,  including 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  115 

children,  have  numbered  twenty,  of  which  some  seemed 
drunk,  and  all  more  or  less  excited.  Roger  turned  to 
go  back  the  moment  he  caught  sight  of  them ;  but  I 
felt  inclined,  I  hardly  knew  why,  to  linger  a  little. 
Should  any  danger  ofter,  it  would  be  easy  to  gain  the 
open  thoroughfare. 

"  It's  not  at  all  a  fit  place  for  a  lady,"  he  said. 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  answered  ;  "  it  hardly  seems  a  fit 
place  for  human  beings.  These  are  human  beings, 
though.     Let  us  go  through  it." 

He  still  hesitated ;  but  as  I  went  on,  he  could  but 
follow  me.  I  wanted  to  see  what  the  attracting  centre 
of  the  little  crowd  was ;  and  that  it  must  be  occupied 
with  some  aft'air  of  more  than  ordinary'-  interest,  I  judged 
from  the  fact  that  a  good  many  superterrestrial  spectators 
looked  down  from  the  windows  at  various  elevations  upon 
the  disputants,  whose  voices  now  and  then  lulled  for  a 
moment  only  to  break  out  in  fresh  objurgation  and  dis- 
pute. 

Drawing  a  little  nearer,  a  slight  parting  of  the  crowd 
revealed  its  core  to  us.  It  was  a  little  woman,  without 
bonnet  or  shawl,  whose  back  was  towards  us.  She 
turned  from  side  to  side,  now  talking  to  one,  and  now 
to  another  of  the  surrounding  circle.  At  first  I  thought 
she  was  setting  forth  her  grievances,  in  the  hope  of 
sympathy,  or  perhaps  of  justice  ;  but  I  soon  perceived 
that  her  motions  were  too  calm  for  that.  Sometimes  the 
crowd  would  speak  altogether,  sometimes  keep  silent  for 
a  full  minute  while  she  went  on  talking.  When  she 
turned  her  face  towards  us,  Roger  and  I  turned  ours, 
anil  stared  at  each  other.  The  face  was  disfigured  by  a 
swollen  eye,  evidently  from  a  blow  ;  but  clearly  enough, 
if  it  was  not  Miss  Clare,  it  was  the  young  woman  of  the 
beer-jug.  Neither  of  us  spoke,  but  turned  once  more 
to  watch  the  result  of  what  seemed  to  have  at  length 
settled  down  into  an  almost  amicable  conference.  After 
a  few  more  grumbles  and  protestations,  the  group  began 
to  break  up  into  twos  and  threes.  These  the  young 
woman  seemed  to  set  herself  to  break  up  again.  Here, 
however,  an  ill-looking  fellow  like  a  costermonger,  with 


116  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

a  broken  nose,  came  up  to  us,  and  with  a  strong  Irish 
accent  and  offensive  manner,  but  still  with  a  touch  of 
Irish  breeding,  requested  to  know  what  our  business 
was.     lioger  asked  if  the  place  wasn't  a  thoroughfare. 

"Not  for  the  likes  o'  you,"  he  answered,  "as  comes 
pryin'  after  the  likes  of  us.  We  manage  our  own  affairs 
down  here  —  we  do.     You'd  better  be  off,  my  lady." 

I  have  my  doubts  what  sort  of  reply  Roger  might 
have  returned  if  he  had  been  alone,  but  he  certainly 
spoke  in  a  very  conciliatory  manner,  whicli,  however,  the 
man  did  not  seem  to  appreciate,  for  he  called  it  blarney ; 
but  the  young  woman,  catching  sight  of  our  little  group, 
and  supposing,  I  presume,  that  it  also  required  disper- 
sion, approached  us.  She  had  come  within  a  yard  of 
us,  when  suddenly  her  face  brightened,  and  she  ex- 
claimed, in  a  tone  of  surprise,  — 

"  Mrs.  Percivale  !     You  here  ?  " 

It  was  indeed  Miss  Clare.  Without  the  least  embar- 
rassment, she  held  out  her  hand  to  me,  but  I  am  afraid 
I  did  not  take  it  very  cordially.  Roger,  however,  be- 
haved to  her  as  if  they  stood  in  a  drawing-room,  and  this 
brought  me  to  a  sense  of  propriety. 

"  I  don't  look  very  respectable,  I  fear,"  she  said,  put- 
ting her  hand  over  her  eye.  "  The  fact  is,  I  have  had  a 
blow,  and  it  will  look  worse  to-morrow.  Were  you 
coming  to  find  me  ?  " 

I  forget  what  lame  answer  either  of  us  gave. 

"  Will  you  come  in  ?  "  she  said. 

On  the  spur  of  the  moment,  I  declined.  For  all  my 
fine  talk  to  Roger,  I  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  entering 
one  of  those  houses.  I  can  only  say,  in  excuse,  that  my 
whole  mind  was  in  a  condition  of  bewilderment. 

"  Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you,  then  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a 
tone  slightly  marked  with  disappointment,  I  thought. 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  I  answered,  hardly  knowing  what 
my  words  were. 

"Then  good-night,"  she  said,  and,  nodding  kindly, 
turned,  and  entered  one  of  the  houses. 

We  also  turned  in  silence,  and  walked  out  of  the 
court. 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  117 

"  Why  didn't  you  go  witli  her  ?  "  said  Roger,  as  soon 
as  we  were  in  the  street. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  if  you  wanted  to  go,  Roger ; 
but"— 

"  I  think  you  might  have  gone,  seeing  I  was  with 
you,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  have  been  at  all  a  proper 
thing  to  do,  without  knowing  more  about  her,"  I  an- 
swered, a  little  hurt.  "  You  can't  tell  what  sort  of  a 
place  it  may  be." 

"  It's  a  good  place  wherever  she  is,  or  I  am  much  mis- 
taken," he  returned. 

"  You  may  be  much  mistaken,  Roger." 

"  True.  I  have  been  mistaken  more  than  once  in  my 
life.     I  am  not  mistaken  this  time,  though." 

"  I  presume  you  would  have  gone  if  I  hadn't  been 
with  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  she  had  asked  me,  which  is  not  very 
likely." 

"  And  you  lay  the  disappointment  of  missing  a  glimpse 
into  the  sweet  privacy  of  such  a  home  to  my  charge  ?  " 

It  was  a  spiteful  speech  ;  and  Roger's  silence  made 
me  feel  it  was,  which,  with  the  rather  patronizing 
opinion  I  had  of  Roger,  I  found  not  a  little  galling.  So 
I,  too,  kept  silence,  and.  nothing  beyond  a  platitude 
had  passed  between  us  when  I  found  myself  at  my 
own  door,  my  shopping  utterly  forgotten,  and  something 
acid  on  my  mind. 

"  Don't  you  mean  to  come  in?"  I  said,  for  he  held 
out  his  hand  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  to  bid  me  good- 
night. "  My  husband  will  be  home  soon,  if  he  has  not 
come  already.  You  needn't  be  bored  with  my  com- 
pany—  you  can  sit  in  the  study." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  not,"  he  answered. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Roger,  if  I  was  rude  to  you,"  I 
said;  "  but  how  could  you  wish  me  to  be  hand-and-glove 
with  a  woman  who  visits  people  who  she  is  well  aware 
would  not  think  of  inviting  her  if  they  had  a  notion  of 
her  surroundings.  That  can't  be  right,  I  am  certain. 
I  protest  I  feel  just  as  if  I  had  been  reading  an  ill-in- 


118  TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

vented  story,  - —  an  unnatural  fiction.  I  cannot  get  these 
things  together  in  my  mind  at  all,  do  what  I  will." 

"  There  must  be  some  way  of  accounting  for  it,"  said 
Roger. 

"No  doubt,"  I  returned;  "but  who  knows  what  that 
way  may  be  ?  " 

'■'  You  may  be  wrong  in  supposing  that  the  people  at 
•whose  houses  she  visits  know  nothing  about  her  habits." 

''Is  it  at  all  likely  they  do,  Roger?  Do  you  think  it 
IS  ?  I  know  at  least  that  my  cousin  dispensed  with  her 
services  as  soon  as  she  came  to  the  knowledge  of  certain 
facts  concerning  these  very  jioints." 

"  Excuse  me  —  certain  rumors  —  very  uncertain 
facts." 

When  you  are  cross,  the  slightest  play  upon  words  is 
an  offence.  I  knocked  at  the  door  in  dudgeon,  then 
turned  and  said, — 

"  My  cousin  Judy,  Mr.  Roger  " — 

But  here  I  paused,  for  I  had  nothing  ready.  Anger 
makes  some  people  cleverer  for  the  moment,  but  when  I 
am  angry  I  am  always  stupid.  Roger  finished  the  sen- 
tence for  me. 

—  "  Your  cousin  Judy  is,  you  must  allow,  a  very  con- 
ventional woman,"  he  said. 

"  She  is  very  good-natured,  anyhow.  And  what  do 
you  say  to  Lady  Bernard  ?  " 

"  She  hasn't  repudiated  Miss  Clare's  acquaintance,  so 
I'ar  as  I  know." 

"But,  answer  me, — do  you  believe  Lady  Bernard 
would  invite  her  to  meet  her  friends  if  she  knew  all  ?  " 

"  Depend  upon  it.  Lady  Bernard  knows  what  she  is 
about.  People  of  her  rank  can  aftbrd  to  be  unconven- 
tional." 

This  irritated  me  yet  more,  for  it  implied  that  I  was 
influenced  by  the  conventionality  which  boMi  he  and  my 
husband  despised;  and  Sarah  opening  the  door  that 
instant,  I  stepped  in,  without  even  saying  good-night  to 
him.  Before  she  closed  it,  however,  I  heard  my  hus- 
band's voice,  and  ran  out  again  to  welcome  him. 

He  and  Roger  had  already  met  in  the  little  front  gar- 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  119 

den.     Tliey  did  not  shake   hands  —  tliey  never  did  — 
they  always  met  as  if  they  had  parted  only  an  hour  ago. 

"  What  were  you  and  my  wife  quarrelling  about, 
Rodge  ? "  I  heard  Percivale  ask,  and  paused  on  the 
middle  of  the  stair  to  hear  his  answer. 

"  How  do  you  know  we  were  quarrelling  ?  "  returned 
Roger  gloomily. 

"  I  heard  you  from  the  very  end  of  the  street,"  said 
my  husband. 

"  That's  not  so  far,"  said  Roger ;  for  indeed  one  house, 
with,  I  confess,  a  good  space  of  garden  on  each  side  of 
it,  and  the  end  of  another  house,  finished  the  street. 
Lut  notwithstanding  the  shortness  of  the  distance  it 
stung  me  to  the  quick.  Here  had  I  been  regarding,  not 
even  with  contempt,  only  with  disgust,  the  quarrel  in 
which  Miss  Clare  was  mixed  up  ;  and  half  an  hour  after, 
my  own  voice  was  heard  in  dispute  with  my  husband's 
brother  from  the  end  of  the  street  in  which  we  lived ! 
I  felt  humiliated,  and  did  not  rush  down  the  remaining 
half  of  the  steps  to  implore  my  husband's  protection 
against  Roger's  crossness. 

"  Too  far  to  hear  a  wife  and  a  brother,  though,"  re- 
turned Percivale  jocosely. 

"Go  on,"  said  Roger ;  ''  pray  go  on.  Let  dogs  delight 
comes  next.  I  beg  Mrs.  Percivale's  pardon.  I  will 
amend  the  quotation  :  '  Let  dogs  delight  to  worry '  " — 

*'  Cats,"  I  exclaimed  ;  and  rushing  down  the  steps,  I 
kissed  Roger  before  I  kissed  my  husband. 

"  I  meant  —  I  mean  —  I  was  going  to  say  lambs." 

"  Now,  Roger,  don't  add  to  your  vices  flattery  and  " — 

"  And  fibbing,"  he  subjoined. 

"  I  didn't  say  so." 

"  You  only  meant  it." 

"  Don't  begin  again,"  interposed  Percivale.  "  Come 
in,  and  refer  the  cause  in  dispute  to  me." 

We  did  go  in,  and  we  did  refer  the  matter  to  him. 
By  the  time  we  had  between  us  told  him  the  facts  of 
the  case,  however,  the  point  in  dispute  between  us  ap- 
peared to  have  grown  hazy,  the  fact  being  that  neither 
of  us  cared  to  say  any  thing  more  about  it.     Percivale 


120  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

insisted  that  there  was  no  question  before  the  court.  At 
lengtli  Roger,  turning  from  me  to  his  brother,  said,  — 

"  It's  not  worth  mentioning,  Charley ;  but  what  led  to 
our  irreconcilable  quarrel  was  this :  I  thought  Wjninie 
might  have  accepted  Miss  Clare's  invitation  to  walk  in 
and  pay  her  a  visit ;  and  Wynnie  thought  me,  I  sup- 
pose, too  ready  to  sacrifice  her  dignity  to  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  a  little  more  of  the  object  of  our  altercation. 
There  ! " 

My  husband  turned  to  me  and  said,  — 

"  Mrs.  Percivale,  do  you  accept  this  as  a  correct  rep- 
resentation of  your  difference  ?  " 

"  Well,"  I  answered,  hesitating  —  "  yes,  on  the  whole. 
All  I  object  to  is  the  word  dignity.^' 

"  I  retract  it,"  cried  Eoger,  "  and  accept  any  substi- 
tute you  prefer." 

"Let  it  stand,"  I  returned.  "It  will  do  as  well  as  a 
better.  I  only  wish  to  say  that  it  was  not  exactly  my 
dignity  " — 

"  No,  no  ;  your  sense  of  propriety,"  said  my  husband ; 
and  then  sat  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  pondering  like 
a  judge.     At  length  he  spoke  :  — 

"  Wife,"  he  said,  "  j^ou  might  have  gone  with  your 
brother,  I  think  ;  but  I  quite  understand  your  disinclina- 
tion. At  the  same  time,  a  more  generous  judgment  of 
Miss  Clare  might  have  prevented  any  difference  of  feel- 
ing in  the  matter." 

"  But,"  I  said,  greatly  inclined  to  cry,  "  I  only  post- 
poned my  judgment  concerning  her." 

And  I  only  postponed  my  crying,  for  I  was  very  much 
ashamed  of  myself. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MISS    CLARE. 

Of  course  my  husband  and  I  talked  a  good  deal  more 
about  what  I  ought  to  have  done  ;  and  I  saw  clearly 
enough  that  I  ought  to  have  run  any  risk  there  might 
be  in  accepting  her  invitation.  I  had  been  foolishly 
taking  more  care  of  myself  than  was  necessary.  I  told 
him  I  would  write  to  Roger,  and  ask  him  when  he  could 
take  me  there  again. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  better  plan,''  he  said.  "  I  will  go 
with  you  myself.  And  that  will  get  rid  of  half  the 
awkwardness  there  would  be  if  you  went  with  Roger, 
after  having  with  him  refused  to  go  in." 

"  But  would  that  be  fair  to  Roger?  She  would  think 
I  didn't  like  going  with  him,  and  I  would  go  with  Roger 
anywhere.     It  was  I  who  did  not  want  to  go.     He  did." 

"  My  plan,  however,  will  pave  the  way  for  a  full  ex- 
planation —  or  confession  rather,  I  suppose  it  will  turn 
out  to  be.  I  know  you  are  burning  to  make  it,  with 
your  mania  for  confessing  your  faults." 

I  knew  he  did  not  like  me  the  worse  for  that  viayiia, 
though. 

"  The  next  time,"  he  added,  "you  can  go  with  Roger, 
always  supposing  you  should  feel  inclined  to  continue 
the  acquaintance,  and  then  you  will  be  able  to  set  him 
right  in  her  eyes." 

The  plan  seemed  unobjectionable.  But  just  then  Per- 
civale  was  very  busy ;  and  I  being  almost  as  much  occu- 
pied with  my  baby  as  he  was  with  his,  day  after  day 
and  week  after  week  passed,  during  which  our  duty  to 
Miss  Clare  was,  I  will  not  say  either  forgotten  or  neg- 
lected, but  unfulfilled.  ^ 

11  121 


5j>2  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

One  afternoon  I  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  my  fa- 
ther.    He  not  unfreqnently  surprised  us. 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  us  know,  papa  ?  "  I  said.  "  A 
surprise  is  very  nice ;  but  an  expectation  is  much  nicer, 
and  lasts  so  much  longer." 

•''  I  might  have  disappointed  you." 

"  Even  if  you  had,  I  should  have  already  enjoyed  the 
expectation.     That  would  be  safe." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  in  excuse  of  sur- 
prises," he  rejoined ;  "  but  in  the  present  case,  I  have  a 
special  one  to  offer.  I  was  taken  with  a  sudden  desire  to 
see  you.  It  was  very  foolish  no  doubt,  and  you  are  quite 
right  in  wishing  I  weren't  here,  only  goiug  to  come  to- 
morrow." 

"  Don't  bo  so  cruel,  papa.  Scarcely  a  day  passes  in 
which  1  do  not  long  to  see  you.  My  baby  makes  me 
think  more  about  my  home  than  ever." 

"  Then  she's  a  very  healthy  baby,  if  one  may  judge 
by  her  influences.  But  you  know,  if  I  had  had  to  give 
you  warning,  I  could  not  have  been  here  before  to- 
morrow ;  and  surely  you  will  acknowledge,  that,  however 
nice  expectation  may  be,  presence  is  better." 

"  Yes,  papa.  We  will  make  a  compromise,  if  you 
please.  Every  time  you  think  of  coming  to  me,  you 
must  either  come  at  once,  or  let  me  know  you  are  com- 
ing.    Do  you  agree  to  that  ?  " 

"  I  agree,"  he  said. 

So  I  have  the  pleasure  of  a  constant  expectation. 
Any  day  he  may  walk  in  unheralded ;  or  by  any  post 
I  may  receive  a  letter  with  the  news  that  he  is  coming 
at  such  a  time. 

As  we  sat  at  dinner  that  evening,  he  asked  if  we  had 
lately  seen  Miss  Clare. 

"  I've  seen  her  only  once,  and  Percivale  not  at  all, 
since  you  were  here  last,  papa,"  I  answered. 

"  How's  that  ?  "  he  asked  again,  a  little  surprised. 
"Haven't  you  got  her  address  yet?  I  want  very  much 
to  know  more  of  her." 

"  So  do  we.  I  haven't  got  her  address,  but  I  know 
where  she  lives." 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  123 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Wynnie  ?  Has  she  taken  to 
dark  sayings  of  late,  Percivale  ?  " 

I  told  him  the  whole  story  of  my  adventure  with 
Roger,  and  the  reports  Judy  had  prejudiced  my  judg- 
ment withal.  He  heard  me  through  in  silence,  for  it 
was  a  rule  with  him  never  to  interrupt  a  narrator.  He 
used  to  say,  ''  You  will  generally  get  at  more,  and  in  a 
better  fashion,  if  you  let  any  narrative  take  its  own 
devious  course,  without  the  interruption  of  requested 
explanations.  By  the  time  it  is  over,  you  will  find  the 
questions  you  wanted  to  ask  mostly  vanished.'' 

"  Describe  the  place  to  me,  Wynnie,"  he  said,  when 
I  had  ended.  "  I  must  go  and  see  her.  I  have  a  sus- 
picion, amounting  almost  to  a  conviction,  that  she  is  one 
whose  acquaintance  ought  to  be  cultivated  at  any  cost. 
There  is  some  grand  explanation  of  all  this  contradic- 
tory strangeness." 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  describe  the  place  to  you  so 
that  you  would  find  it.  But  if  Percivale  wouldn't  mind 
my  going  with  you  instead  of  with  him,  I  should  be 
only  too  happy  to  accompany  you.    May  I,  Percivale  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  It  will  do  just  as  well  to  go  with  your 
father  as  with  me.  I  only  stipulate,  that,  if  you  are 
both  satisfied,  you  take  Roger  with  you  next  time." 

"  Of  course  I  will." 

"  Then  we'll  go  to-morrow  morning,"  said  my  fatherc 

"  I  don't  think  she  is  likely  to  be  at  home  in  the 
morning,"  I  said.  "  She  goes  out  giving  lessons,  you 
know;  and  the  probability  is,  that  at  that  time  we 
should  not  find  her." 

*'  Then  why  not  to-night?  "  he  rejoined. 

"  Why  not,  if  you  wish  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  wish  it,  then." 

"  If  you  knew  the  place,  though,  I  think  you  would 
prefer  going  a  little  earlier  than  we  can  to-night." 

''  Ah,  well !  we  will  go  to-morrow  evening.  We  could 
dine  early,  couldn't  we  ?  " 

So  it  was  arranged.  My  father  went  about  some 
business  in  the  morning.  We  dined  early,  and  set  out 
about  six  o'clock. 


124  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

My  father  was  getting  an  old  man,  and  if  any  protec- 
tion liad  been  required,  he  could  not  have  been  half 
so  active  as  Roger;  and  yet  I  felt  twice  as  safe  with 
him.  I  am  satisfied  that  the  deepest  sense  of  safety, 
even  in  respect  of  physical  dangers,  can  spring  only 
from  moral  causes ;  neither  do  you  half  so  much  fear 
evil  happening  to  you,  as  fear  evil  happening  which 
ought  not  to  happen  to  you.  I  believe  what  made  me 
so  courageous  was  the  undeveloped  fore-feeling,  that,  if 
any  evil  should  overtake  me  in  my  father's  company,  I 
should  not  care ;  it  would  be  all  right  then,  anyhow. 
The  repose  was  in  my  father  himself,  and  neither  in  his 
strength  nor  his  wisdom.  The  former  might  fail,  the 
latter  might  mistake  ;  but  so  long  as  I  was  with  him  in 
what  I  did,  no  harm  worth  counting  harm  could  come 
to  me,  — only  such  as  I  should  neither  lament  nor  feel. 
Scarcely  a  shadow  of  danger,  however,  showed  itself 

It  was  a  cold  evening  in  the  middle  of  November. 
The  light,  which  had  been  scanty  enough  all  day,  had 
vanished  in  a  thin  penetrating  fog.  Round  every  lamp 
in  the  street  was  a  colored  halo ;  the  gay  shops  gleamed 
like  jewel-caverns  of  Aladdin  hollowed  out  of  the  dark- 
ness ;  and  the  people  that  hurried  or  sauntered  along 
looked  inscrutable.  Where  could  they  live  ?  Had  they 
anybody  to  love  them  ?  Were  their  hearts  quiet  under 
their  dingy  cloaks  and  shabby  coats? 

"  Yes,"  returned  my  father,  to  whom  I  had  said 
something  to  this  effect,  "  what  would  not  one  give  for 
a  peep  into  the  mysteries  of  all  these  worlds  that  go 
crowding  past  us.  If  we  could  but  see  through  the 
opaque  husk  of  them,  some  would  glitter  and  glow  like 
diamond  mines  ;  others  perhaps  would  look  mere  earthy 
holes  ;  some  of  them  forsaken  quarries,  with  a  great 
pool  of  stagnant  water  in  the  bottom ;  some  like  vast 
coal-pits  of  gloom,  into  which  you  dared  not  carry  a 
lighted  lamp  for  fear  of  explosion.  Some  would  be  mere 
lumber-rooms  ;  others  ill-arranged  libraries,  without  a 
poets'  corner  anywhere.  But  what  a  wealth  of  creation 
they  show,  and  what  infinite  room  for  hope  it  affords !" 

"  But  don't  you  think,  papa,  there  may  be  something 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  125 

of  worth  lying  even  in  the  earth-pit,  or  at  the  bottom  of 
the  stagnant  water  in  the  forsaken  quarry?" 

"  Indeed  I  do ;  though  I  have  met  more  than  one  in 
my  lifetime  concerning  whom  I  felt. compelled  to  say 
that  it  wanted  keener  eyes  than  mine  to  discover  the 
hidden  jewel.  But  then  there  are  keener  eyes  than 
mine,  for  there  are  more  loving  eyes.  Myself  I  have 
been  able  to  see  good  very  clearly  where  some  could  see 
none ;  and  shall  I  doubt  that  God  can  see  good  where 
ray  mole-eyes  can  see  none  ?  Be  sure  of  this,  that,  as  he 
is  keen-eyed  for  the  evil  in  his  creatures  to  destroy  it, 
he  would,  if  it  were  possible,  be  yet  keener-eyed  for  the 
good  to  nourish  and  cherish  it.  If  men  would  only  side 
with  the  good  that  is  in  them,  —  will  that  the  seed  should 
grow  and  bring  forth  fruit ! " 


11» 


CHAPTEE    XVIII. 

MISS  glare's  home. 

We  had  now  arrived  at  the  passage.  The  gin-shop 
was  flaring  through  the  fog.  A  man  in  a  fustian  jacket 
came  out  of  it,  and  walked  slowly  down  before  us,  with 
the  clay  of  the  brick-field  clinging  to  him  as  high  as 
the  leather  straps  with  which  his  trousers  were  confined, 
garter-wise,  under  the  knee'.  The  place  was  quiet.  We 
and  the  brickmaker  seemed  the  only  people  in  it.  When 
we  turned  the  last  corner,  he  was  walking  in  at  the  very 
door  where  Miss  Clare  had  disappeared.  When  I  told 
my  father  that  was  the  house,  he  called  after  the  man, 
who  came  out  again,  and,  standing  on  the  pavement, 
waited  until  we  came  up. 

"  Does  Miss  Clare  live  in  this  house  ? "  my  father 
asked. 

''  She  do,"  answered  the  man  curtly. 

"First  floor?" 

"  No.  Nor  yet  the  second,  nor  the  third.  She  live 
nearer  heaven  than  'ere  another  in  the  house  'cep'  my- 
self.    I  live  in  the  attic,  and  so  do  she." 

"  There  is  a  way  of  living  nearer  to  heaven  than 
that,"  said  my  father,  laying  his  hand,  "with  a  right 
old  man's  grace,"  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  dunno,  'cep'  you  was  to  go  up  in  a  belloon,"  said 
the  man,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  which  my  father 
took  to  mean  that  he  understood  him  better  than  he 
chose  to  acknowledge ;  but  he  did  not  pursue  the  figure. 

He  was  a  rough,  lumpish  young  man,  with  good  but 
dull  features  —  only  his  blue  eye  was  clear.  He  looked 
my  father  full  in  the  face,  and  I  thought  I  saw  a  dim 
smile  about  his  mouth. 

126 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER,  127 

"You  know  her,  then,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Everybody  in  the  house  knows  her.  There  ain't 
many  the  likes  o'  her  as  lives  wi'  the  likes  of  us.  You 
go  right  up  to  the  top.  I  don't  know  if  she's  in,  but 
a'most  any  one'll  be  able  to  tell  you.  I  ain't  been  home 
yet." 

My  father  thanked  him,  and  we  entered  the  house, 
and  began  to  ascend.  The  stair  was  very  much  w6rn 
and  rather  dirty,  and  some  of  the  banisters  were  broken 
away,  but  |lie  walls  were  tolerably  clean.  Half-way  up 
we  met  a  little  girl  with  tangled  hair  and  tattered  gar- 
ments, carrj'ing  a  bottle. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear,"  said  my  father  to  her, 
"  whether  Miss  Clare  is  at  home  ?  " 

"I  dunno,"  she  answered.  "  I  dunno  who  you  mean. 
I  been  mindin'  the  baby.  He  ain't  well.  Mother  says 
his  head's  had.  She's  a-going  up  to  tell  grannie,  and 
see  if  she  can't  do  suthin'  for  him.  You  better  asfc 
mother.  —  Mother  !  "  she  called  out  —  "  here's  a  lady  an' 
a  gen'lem'." 

"  You  go  about  yer  business,  and  be  back  direckly," 
cried  a  gruff  voice  from  somewhere  above. 

"  That's  mother,"  said  the  child,  and  ran  down  the 
stair. 

When  we  reached  the  second  floor,  there  stood  a  big 
fat  woman  on  the  landing,  with  her  face  red,  and  her 
hair  looking  like  that  of  a  doll  ill  stuck  on.  She  did 
not  speak,  but  stood  waiting  to  see  what  we  wanted. 

"I'm  told  Miss  Clare  lives  here,"  said  my  father. 
"  Can  you  tell  me,  my  good  woman,  whether  she's  at 
home  ?  " 

"I'm  neither  good  woman  nor  bad  woman,"  she  re- 
turned in  an  insolent  tone. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  my  father ;  "  but  you  see 
I  didn't  know  your  name." 

"An'  ye  don't  know  it  yet.  You've  no  call  to  know 
my  name.  I'll  ha'  nothing  to  do  wi'  the  likes  o'  you  as 
goes  about  takin'  poor  folks's  childer  from  'em.  There's 
my  poor  Glory's  been  an'  took  atwixt  you  an'  grannie, 
and  shet  up  in  a  formatory  as  you  calls  it ;  an'  I  should 


128  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

like  to  know  what  right  you've  got  to  go  about  that  way 
arter  poor  girls  as  has  mothers  to  help." 

"I  assure  you  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said  my 
father.  "I'm  a  country  clergyman  myself,  and  have 
no  duty  in  London." 

"  Well,  that's  where  they've  took  her  —  down  in  the 
country,  I  make  no  doubt  but  you've  had  your  finger 
in  that  pie.  You  don't  come  here  to  call  upon  us  for  the 
pleasure  o'  makin'  our  acquaintance  —  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  — 
You're  alius  arter  somethin'  troublesome.  I'd  adwise 
you,  sir  and  miss,  to  let  well  alone.  Sleepin'  dogs  won't 
bite  ;  but  you'd  better  let  'em  lie  —  and  that  I  tell  you." 

"  Believe  me,"  said  my  father  quite  quietly,  "  I 
haven't  the  least  knowledge  of  your  daughter.  The 
country's  a  bigger  place  than  you  seem  to  think,  —  far 
bigger  than  London  itself.  All  I  wanted  to  trouble 
you  about  was  to  tell  us  whether  Miss  Clare  was  at  home 
or  not." 

"  I  don't  know  no  one  o'  that  name.  If  it's  grannie 
you  mean,  she's  g.t  home,  I  know  —  though  it's  not  much 
reason  I've  got  to  care  whether  she's  at  home  or  not." 

"  It's  a  young —  woman,  I  mean,"  said  my  father. 

"  'Tain't  a  young  lady,  then  ?  —  Well,  I  don't  care 
what  you  call  her.  I  dare  say  it'll  be  all  one,  come 
judgment.  You'd  better  go  up  till  you  can't  go  no 
further,  an'  knocks  yer  head  agin  the  tiles,  and  then  you 
may  feel  about  for  a  door,  and  knock  at  that,  and  see  if 
the  party  as  opens  it  is  the  party  you  wants." 

So  saying,  she  turned  in  at  a  door  behind  her,  and 
shut  it.  But  we  could  hear  her  still  growling  and 
grumbling. 

"  It's  very  odd,"  said  my  father,  with  a  bewildered 
smile.  "I  think  we'd  better  do  as  she  says,  and  go  up 
till  we  knock  our  heads  against  the  tiles." 

We  climbed  two  stairs  more,  —  the  last  very  steep, 
and  so  dark  that  when  we  reached  the  top  we  found  it 
necessary  to  follow  the  woman's  directions  literally,  and 
feel  about  for  a  door.  But  we  had  not  to  feel  long  or 
far,  for  there  was  one  close  to  the  top  of  the  stair.  My 
father  knocked.     There  was  no  reply  j  but  we   heard 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  129 

he  sound  of  a  chair,  and  presently  some  one  opened  it. 
^he  only  light  being  behind  her,  I  could  not  see  her 
ice,  but  the  size  and  shape  were  those  of  Miss  Clare. 
She  did  not  leave  us  in  doubt,  however ;  for,  without 
moment's  hesitation,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  me, 
aying,  "  This  is  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Percivale  ;  "  then  to 
3y  father,  saying,  "  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Wal- 
Dn.     Will  you  walk  in  ?  " 

We  followed  her  into  the  room.  It  was  not  very 
mall,  for  it  occupied  nearly  tlie  breadth  of  the  house. 
)n  one  side  the  roof  sloped  so  nearly  to  the  floor  that 
liere  was  not  height  enough  to  stand  erect  in.  On  the 
ther  side  the  sloping  part  was  partitioned  off,  evidently 
)r  a  bedroom.  But  what  a  change  it  was  from  the 
)wer  part  of  the  house  !  By  the  light  of  a  single  mould 
andle,  I  saw  that  the  floor  was  as  clean  as  old  boards 
ould  be  made,  and  I  wondered  whether  she  scrubbed 
hem  herself.  I  know  now  that  she  did.  The  two  dor- 
aer  windows  were  hung  with  white  dimity  curtains. 
Jack  in  the  angle  of  the  roof,  between  the  windows, 
tood  an  old  bureau.  There  was  little  more  than  room 
■etween  the  top  of  it  and  the  ceiling  for  a  little  plaster 
tatuette  with  bound  hands  and  a  strangely  crowned 
lead.  A  few  books  on  hanging  shelves  were  on  the 
pposite  side  by  the  door  to  the  other  room  ;  and  the 
palls,  which  were  whitewashed,  were  a  good  deal  cov- 
red  with  —  whether  engravings  or  etchings  or  litho- 
graphs I  could  not  then  see  —  none  of  them  framed,  only 
nounted  on  card-board.  There  was  a  fire  cheerfully 
mining  in  the  gable,  and  opposite  to  that  stood  a  tall 
•Id-fashioned  cabinet  piano,  in  faded  red  silk.  It  was 
ipen  ;  and  on  the  music-rest  lay  Handel's  "  Verdi  Prati," 
—  for  I  managed  to  glance  at  it  as  we  left.  A  few 
vooden  chairs,  and  one  very  old-fashioned  easy-chair, 
lovered  with  striped  chintz,  from  which  not  glaze  only 
)ut  color  almost  had  disappeared,  with  an  oblong  table 
if  deal,  completed  the  furniture  of  the  room.  She 
nade  my  father  sit  down  in  the  easj'-chair,  placed  mo 
•ne  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  took  another  at  the  corner 
)pposite    my  father.     A    moment    of    silence   followed, 


i. 


130  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

which  I,  having  a  guilty  conscience,  felt  awkward.  But 
my  father  never  allowed  awkwardness  to  accumulate. 

"  I  had  hoped  to  have  been  able  to  call  upon  you  long 
ago,  Miss  Clare,  but  there  was  some  difficulty  in  finding 
out  where  you  lived." 

"  You  are  no  longer  sui-prised  at  that  difficulty,  I  pre- 
sume," she  returned  with  a  smile. 

"But,"  said  my  father,  "■  if  you  will  allow  an  old  man 
to  speak  freely  "  — 

"  Say  what  you  please,  Mr.  Walton.  I  promise  to 
answer  any  question  you  think  proper  to  ask  me." 

"My  dear  Miss  Clare,  I  had  not  the  slightest  inten- 
tion of  catechising  you,  though,  of  course,  I  shall  be 
grateful  for  what  confidence  you  please  to  put  in  me. 
What  I  meant  to  say  might  indeed  have  taken  the 
form  of  a  question,  but  as  such  could  have  been  intended 
only  for  you  to  answer  to  yourself,  —  whether,  namely, 
it  was  wise  to  place  yourself  at  such  a  disadvantage  as 
living  in  this  quarter  must  be  to  you." 

"  If  you  were  acquainted  with  my  history,  you  would 
perhaps  hesitate,  Mr.  Walton,  before  you  said  I  placed 
myself  at  such  disadvantage." 

Here  a  thought  struck  me. 

"  I  fancy,  papa,  it  is  not  for  her  own  sake  Miss  Clare 
lives  here." 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  interposed. 

"  I  believe,"  I  went  on,  "  she  has  a  grandmother,  who 
probably  has  grown  accustomed  to  the  place,  and  is  un- 
willing to  leave  it." 

She  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment,  then  burst  into  a 
merry  laugh. 

"  I  see,"  she  exclaimed.  "  How  stupid  I  am  !  You 
have  heard  some  of  the  people  in  the  house  talk  about 
grannie :  that's  me  !  I  am  known  in  the  house  as  gran- 
nie, and  have  been  for  a  good  many  yeai's  now  —  I  can 
hardly,  without  thinking,  tell  for  how  many." 

Again  she  laughed  heartily,  and  my  father  and  I 
shared  her  merriment. 

"  How  many  grandchildren  have  you  then,  pray,  Miss 
Clare?" 


TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  131 

"Let  me  see." 

She  thought  for  a  minute. 

"  I  could  easily  tell  you  if  it  were  only  the  people  in 
this  house  I  had  to  reckon  up.  Thej''  are  about  five  and 
thirty ;  but  unfortunately  the  name  has  been  caught  np 
in  the  neighboring  houses,  and  I  am  very  sorry  that  in 
consequence  I  cannot  with  certainty  say  how  many 
grandchildren  I  have.  I  think  I  know  them  all,  how- 
ever ;  and  I  fancy  that  is  more  than  many  an  English 
graiidmother,  with  children  in  America,  India,  and  Aus- 
tralia, can  say  for  herself." 

Certainly  she  was  not  older  than  I  was ;  and  while 
hearing  her  merry  laugh,  and  seeing  her  young  face 
overflowed  with  smiles,  which  appeared  to  come  spark- 
ling out  of  her  eyes  as  out  of  two  well-springs,  one  could 
not  help  feeling  puzzled  how,  even  in  the  farthest-off 
jest,  she  could  have  got  the  name  of  grannie.  But  I 
could  at  the  same  time  recall  expressions  of  her  counte- 
nance which  would  much  better  agree  with  the  name 
than  that  which  now  shone  from  it. 

"  Would  you  like  to  hear,"  she  said,  when  our  merri- 
ment had  a  little  subsided,  "  how  I  have  so  easily  ar- 
rived at  the  honorable  name  of  grannie,  —  at  least  all  I 
know  about  it?  " 

"  I  should  be  delighted,"  said  my  father. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  pledging  yourself  to 
when  you  say  so,"  she  rejoined,  again  laughing.  "  You 
will  have  to  hear  the  whole  of  my  story  from  the  begin- 
ning." 

"  Again  I  say  I  shall  be  delighted,"  returned  my  fa- 
ther, confident  that  her  history  could  be  the  source  of 
nothing  but  pleasure  to  him. 


|9 


<l 


1. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

HER    STORY. 

Thereupon  Miss  Clare  began.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
give  her  very  words,  but  I  must  tell  her  story  as  if  she 
were  telling  it  herself.  I  shall  be  as  true  as  I  can  to  the 
facts,  and  hope  to  catch  something  of  the  tone  of  the 
narrator  as  I  go  on. 

"  My  mother  died  when  I  was  very  young,  and  I  was 
left  alone  with  my  father,  for  I  was  his  only  child.  He 
was  a  studious  and  thoughtful  man.  It  viay  be  the 
partiality  of  a  daughter,  I  know,  but  I  am  not  necessa- 
rily wrong  in  believing  that  diffidence  in  his  own  powers 
alone  prevented  him  from  distinguishing  himself.  As 
it  was,  he  supported  himself  and  me  by  literary  work  of, 
I  presume,  a  secondary  order.  He  would  spend  all  his 
mornings  for  many  weeks  in  the  library  of  the  British 
Museum,  —  reading  and  making  notes;  after  which  he 
would  sit  writing  at  home  for  as  long  or  longer.  I 
should  have  found  it  very  dull  during  the  former  of  these 
times,  had  he  not  early  discovered  that  I  had  some 
capacity  for  music,  and  provided  for  me  what  I  now 
know  to  have  been  the  best  instruction  to  be  had.  His 
feeling  alone  had  guided  him  right,  for  he  was  without 
musical  knowledge.  I  believe  he  could  not  have  found 
me  a  better  teacher  in  all  Europe.  Her  character  was 
lovely,  and  her  music  the  natural  outcome  of  its  har- 
mony. But  I  must  not  forget  it  is  about  myself  I  have 
to  tell  you.  I  went  to  her,  then,  almost  every  day  for  a 
time  —  but  how  long  that  was,  I  can  only  guess.  It 
must  have  been  several  years,  I  think,  else  I  could  not 
have  attained  what  pro'ficiency  I  had  when  my  sorrow 
came  upon  me. 

132 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  133 

"What  tny  father  wrote  I  cannot  tell.  How  gladly 
would  I  now  read  the  shortest  sentence  I  knew  to  be 
his !  He  never  told  me  for  what  journals  he  wrote,  or 
even  for  what  publishers.  I  fancy  it  was  work  in  which 
his  brain  was  more  interested  than  his  heart,  and  which 
he  was  always  hoping  to  exchange  for  something  more 
to  his  mind.  After  his  death  I  could  discover  scarcely 
a  scrap  of  his  writings,  and  not  a  hint  to  guide  me  to  what 
he  had  written. 

"  I  believe  we  went  on  living  from  hand  to  mouth, 
my  father  never  getting  so  far  ahead  of  the  wolf  as  to 
be  able  to  pause  and  choose  his  way.  But  I  was  very 
happy,  and  would  have  been  no  whit  less  happy  if  he 
had  explained  our  circumstances,  for  that  would  have 
conveyed  to  me  no  hint  of  danger.  Neither  has  any 
of  the  suffering  I  have  had  —  at  least  any  keen  enough 
to  be  worth  dwelling  upon —  sprung  from  personal  priva- 
tion, although  I  am  not  unacquainted  with  hunger  and 
cold. 

"  My  happiest  time  was  when  my  father  asked  me  to 
play  to  him  while  he  wrote,  and  I  sat  down  to  my  old 
cabinet  Broadwood,  —  the  one  you  see  there  is  as  like  it 
as  I  could  find, — and  played  any  thing  and  every 
thing  I  liked,  —  for  somehow  I  never  forgot  what  I  had 
once  learned,  —  while  my  father  sat,  as  he  said,  like  a 
mere  extension  of  the  instrument,  operated  upon,  rather 
than  listening,  as  he  wrote.  What  I  then  thought,  I 
cannot  tell.  I  don't  believe  I  thought  at  alb  I  only 
musicated,  as  a  little  pupil  of  mine  once  said  to  me, 
when,  having  found  her  sitting  with  her  hands  on  her 
lap  before  the  piano,  I  asked  her  what  she  was  doing : 
'  I  am  only  musicating,'  she  answered.  But  the  enjoy- 
ment was  none  the  less  that  there  was  no  conscious 
thought  in  it. 

"  Other'branches  he  tavight  me  himself,  and  I  believe 
I  got  on  very  fairly  for  my  age.  We  lived  then  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Museum,  where  I  was  well  known 
to  all  the  people  of  the  place,  for  I  used  often  to  go 
there,  and  would  linger  about  looking  at  things,  some- 
times for  hours  before  my  father  came  to  me  •  but  he 
always  came  at  the  very  minute  he  had  said,  and  al- 


134  TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

ways  found  me  at  the  appointed  spot.  I  gained  a  great 
deal  by  thus  haunting  the  Museum  —  a  great  deal  more 
than  1  supposed  at  the  time.  One  gain  was,  that  I  knew 
perfectly  where  in  the  place  any  given  sort  of  thing  was 
to  be  found,  if  it  were  there  at  all :  I  had  unconsciously 
learned  something  of  classification. 

"One  afternoon  I  was  waiting  as  usual,  but  my 
father  did  not  come  at  the  time  appointed.  I  waited  on 
and  on  till  it  grew  dark,  and  the  hour  for  closing  ar- 
rived, by  which  time  I  was  in  great  uneasiness  ;  but  I 
was  forced  to  go  home  without  him.  I  must  hasten  over 
this  part  of  my  history,  for  even  yet  I  can  scarcely  bear 
to  speak  of  it.  I  found  that  while  I  was  .waiting,  he 
had  been  seized  with  some  kind  of  fit  in  the  reading- 
room,  and  had  been  carried  home,  and  that  I  was  alone 
in  the  world.  The  landlady,  for  we  only  rented  rooms 
in  the  house,  was  very  kind  to  me,  at  least  until  she 
found  that  my  father  had  left  no  money.  He  had  then 
been  only  reading  for  a  long  time  ;  and,  when  I  looked 
back,  I  could  see  that  he  must  have  been  short  of  money 
for  some  weeks  at  least.  A  few  bills  coming  in,  all  our 
little  eftects  —  for  the  furniture  was  our  own — were  sold, 
without  bringing  sufficient  to  pay  them.  The  things 
went  for  less  than  half  their  value,  in  consequence,  I 
believe,  of  that  well-known  conspiracy  of  the  brokers 
which  they  call  knocking  out.  I  was  especially  misera- 
ble at  losing  my  father's  books,  whicli,  although  in 
ignorance,  I  greatly  valued,  —  more  miserable  even,  I 
honestly  think,  than  at  seeing  my  loved  piano  carried  off 

"  When  the  sale  was  over,  and  every  thing  removed, 
I  sat  down  on  the  floor,  amidst  the  dust  and  bits  of 
paper  and  straw  and  cord,  without  a  single  idea  in  my 
head  as  to  what  was  to  become  of  me,  or  what  I  was 
to  do  nest.  I  didn^'P'lSly, — that  I  am  sure  of;  but  I 
doubt  if  in  all  London  there  was  a  more  wretched  child 
than  myself  just  then.  The  twilight  was  darkening 
down,  —  the  twilight  of  a  November  afternoon.  Of 
course  there  was  no  fire^ro  the  grate,  and  I  had  eaten 
notliing  that  day;  for  although  the  landlady  had  oftered 
me  some  dinner,  and  I  had  tried  to  please  her  by  taking 
some,  I  found  I  could  not  swallow,  and  had  to  leave  it. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGUTER.  135 

While  1  sat  thus  on  the  floor,  I  heard  her  come  into 
the  room,  and  some  one  with  her;  but  I  did  not  look 
round,  and  thej,  not  seeing  me,  and  thinking,  I  sup- 
pose, that  I  was  in  one  of  the  other  rooms,  went  on 
talking  about  me.  All  I  afterwards  remembered  of 
their  conversation  was  some  severe  reflections  on  my 
father,  and  the  announcement  of  the  decree  that  I  must 
go  to  the  workhouse.  Though  I  knew  nothing  definite 
as  to  the  import  of  this  doom,  it  filled  me  with  horror. 
The  moment  they  left  me  alone,  to  look  for  me,  as  I 
supposed,  I  got  up,  and,  walking  as  softly  as  I  could, 
glided  down  the  stairs,  and,  unbouneted  and  unwrapped, 
ran  from  the  house,  lialf-blind  witli  terror. 

"  I  had  not  gone  farther,  I  fancy,  than  a  few  yards, 
when  I  ran  up  against  some  one,  who  laid  hold  of  me, 
and  asked  me  gruffly  what  I  meant  by  it.  I  knew  the 
voice  :  it  was  that  of  an  old  Irishwoman  who  did  all 
the  little  charing  we  wanted,  —  for  I  kept  the  rooms 
tidy,  and  the  landlady  cooked  for  us.  As  soon  as  she 
saw  who  it  was,  her  tone  changed ;  and  then  first  I 
broke  out  in  sobs,  and  told  her  I  was  running  away 
because  they  were  going  to  send  me  to  the  workhouse. 
She  burst  into  a  torrent  of  Irish  indignation,  and  as- 
sured me  that  such  should  never  be  my  fate  while  she 
lived.  I  must  go  back  to  the  house  with  her,  she  said, 
and  get  my  things;  and  then  I  should  go  home  with 
lier,  until  something  better  should  turn  up.  I  told  her 
I  would  go  with  her  anywhere,  except  into  that  house 
again ;  and  she  did  not  insist,  but  afterwards  went  by 
he;:>ielf  and  got  my  little  wardrobe.  In  the  mean  time 
she  led  me  away  to  a  large  house  in  a  square,  of  which 
she  look  the  key  from  her  pocket  to  open  the  door.  It 
looked  to  me  such  a  huge  place  !  —  the  largest  house  I 
Imd  ever  been  in ;  but  it  was  rather  desolate,  for,  except 
vn  one  little  room  below,  where  she  had  scarcely  more 
than  a  bed  and  a  chair,  a  slip  of  carpet  and  a  frying- 
pan,  there  was  not  an  article  of  furniture  in  the  whole 
place.  She  had  been  put  there  when  the  last  tenant  left, 
to  take  care  of  the  place,  until  another  tenant  should 
appear  to  turn  her  out.     She  had  her  houseroom  and  a 


136  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

trifle  a  week  besides  for  her  services,  beyond  which  she 
depended  entirely  on  what  she  could  make  by  charing. 
When  she  had  no  house  to  live  in  on  the  same  terms,  she 
took  a  room  somewhere. 

"  Here  I  lived  for  several  months,  and  was  able  to 
be  of  use  ;  for  as  Mrs.  Conan  was  bound  to  be  there 
at  certain  times  to  show  any  one  over  the  house  who 
brought  an  order  from  the  agent,  and  this  necessarily 
took  up  a  good  part  of  her  working  time  ;  and  as, 
moreover,  I  could  open  the  door  and  walk  about  the 
place  as  well  as  another,  she  willingly  left  me  in  charge 
as  often  as  she  had  a  job  elsewhere. 

"  On  such  occasions,  liowever,  I  found  it  very  dreary 
indeed,  for  few  people  called,  and  she  would  not  unfre- 
quently  be  absent  the  whole  day.  If  I  had  had  my 
piano,  I  should  have  cared  little ;  but  I  had  not  a 
single  book,  except  one  —  and  what  do  you  think  that 
was  ?  An  odd  volume  of  the  Newgate  Calendar.  I 
need  hardly  say  that  it  had  not  the  effect  on  me  which 
it  is  said  to  have  on  some  of  its  students  :  it  moved  me, 
indeed,  to  the  profoundest  sympathj^,  not  with  the  crimes 
of  the  malefactors,  only  with  the  malefactors  them- 
selves, and  their  mental  condition  after  the  deed  was 
actually  done.  But  it  was  with  the  fascination  of  a 
hopeless  horror,  making  me  feel  almost  as  if  I  had  com- 
mitted every  crime  as  I  perused  its  tale,  that  I  regarded 
them.  They  were  to  me  like  living  crimes.  It  was 
not  until  long  afterwards  that  I  was  able  to  understand 
that  a  man's  actions  are  not  the  man,  but  may  be  sepa- 
rated from  him;  that  his  character  even  is  not  the 
man,  but  may  be  changed  while  he  yet  holds  the  same 
individuality,  —  is  the  man  who  was  blind  though  ho 
now  sees;  whence  it  comes,  that,  the  deeds  continuing 
his,  all  stain  of  them  may  yet  be  washed  out  of  him. 
I  did  not,  I  say,  understand  all  this  until  afterwards ; 
but  I  believe,  odd  as  it  may  seem,  that  volume  of  the 
Newgate  Calendar  threw  down  the  first  deposit  of  soil, 
from  which  afterwards  sprung  what  grew  to  be  almost 
a  passion  in  me,  for  getting  the  people  about  me  clean, 
—  a  passion  which  might  have  done  as  much  harm  as 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGUTER.  I37 

goocl,  if  its  companion,  patience,  had  uot  been  sent 
me  to  guide  and  restrain  it.  In  a  word,  I  came  at  length 
to  understand,  in  some  measure,  the  last  prayer  of 
our  Lord  for  those  that  crucified  him,  and  the  ground  on 
which  he  begged  from  his  Father  their  forgiveness,  — 
that  they  knew  not  what  they  did.  If  the  Newgate 
Calendar  was  indeed  the  beginning  of  this  course  of 
education,  I  need  not  regret  having  lost  my  piano,  and 
having  that  volume  for  a  while  as  my  only  aid  to  re- 
flection. 

"  My  father  had  never  talked  much  to  me  about  re- 
ligion ;  but  when  he  did,  it  was  with  such  evident  awe 
in  his  spirit,  and  reverence  in  his  demeanor,  as  had  more 
effect  on  me,  I  am  certain,  from  the  very  paucity  of  the 
words  in  which  his  meaning  found  utterance.  Another 
thing  which  had  still  more  influence  upon  me  was,  that, 
waking  one  night  after  I  had  been  asleep  for  some 
time,  I  saw  him  on  his  knees  by  my  bedside.  I  did 
not  move  or  speak,  for  fear  of  disturbing  him  ;  and,  in- 
deed, such  an  awe  came  over  me,  that  it  would  have  re- 
quired a  considerable  effort  of  the  will  for  any  bodily 
movement  whatever.  When  he  lifted  his  head,  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  pale,  tearful  face ;  and  it  is  no  wonder 
that  the  virtue  of  the  sight  should  never  have  passed 
away. 

"  On  Sundays  we  went  to  church  in  the  morning,  and 
in  the  afternoon,  in  fine  weather,  went  out  for  a  walk  ; 
or,  if  it  were  raining  or  cold,  I  played  to  him  till  he  fell 
asleep  on  the  sofa.  Then  in  the  evening,  after  tea,  we 
had  more  music,  some  poetry,  which  we  read  alternately, 
and  a  chapter  of  the  New  Testament,  which  he  always 
read  to  me.  I  mention  this,  to  show  you  that  I  did 
not  come  all  unprepared  to  the  study  of  the  Newgate 
([Calendar.  Still,  I  cannot  think,  that,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, it  could  have  done  an  innocent  child  harm. 
Even  familiarity  with  vice  is  not  necessarily  pollution. 
There  cannot  be  many  women  of  my  age  as  familiar 
with  it  in  every  shape  as  I  am  ;  and  I  do  not  find  that 
I  grow  to  regard  it  with  one  atom  less  of  absolute  ab- 
horrence, although  I  neither  shudder  at  the  mention  of 
12* 


138  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

it,  nor  turn  with  disgust  from  the  person  in  whom  it 
.dwells.  But  the  consolations  of  religion  were  not  ^yet 
consciously  mine.  I  had  not  yet  begun  to  think  of  God 
in  any  relation  to  myself. 

''  The  house  was  in  an  old  square,  built,  I  believe,  in 
the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  which,  although  many  of  the 
houses  were  occupied  by  well-to-do  people,  had  fallen  far 
from  its  first  high  estate.  No  one  would  believe,  to  look 
at  it  from  the  outside,  what  a  great  place  it  was.  The 
whole  of  tlie  space  behind  it,  corresponding  to  the  small 
gardens  of  the  other  houses,  was  occupied  by  a  large 
music-room,  under  which  was  a  low-pitched  room  of 
equal  extent,  while  all  under  that  were  cellars,  connected 
with  the  sunk  story  in  front  by  a  long  vaulted  passage, 
corresponding  to  a  wooden  gallery  above,  which  formed 
a  communication  between  the  drawing-room  floor  and 
the  music-room.  Most  girls  of  my  age,  knowing  these 
vast  empty  spaces  about  them,  would  have  been  terri- 
fied at  being  left  alone  there,  even  in  mid-day.  But  I 
was,  I  suppose,  too  miserable  to  be  frightened.  Even 
the  horrible  facts  of  the  Newgate  Calendar  did  not  thus 
affect  me,  not  even  when  Mrs.  Conan  was  later  than 
usual,  and  the  night  came  down,  and  I  had  to  sit,  per- 
haps for  hours,  in  the  dark,  —  for  she  would  not  allow 
me  to  have  a  candle  for  fear  of  fire.  But  3'ou  will  not 
wonder  that  I  used  to  cry  a  good  deal,  although  I  did 
my  best  to  hide  the  traces  of  it,  because  I  knew  it  would 
annoy  my  kind  old  friend.  She  showed  me  a  gredt  deal 
of  rough  tenderness,  which  would  not  have  been  rough 
laad  not  the  natural  grace  of  her  Irish  nature  been  in- 
jured by  the  contact  of  many  years  with  the  dull 
coarseness  of  the  uneducated  Saxon.  You  may  be  sure 
I  learned  to  love  her  dearly.  She  shared  every  thing 
with  me  in  the  way  of  eating,  and  would  have  shared 
also  the  tumbler  of  gin  and  water  with  which  she  gen- 
erally ended  the  day,  but  something,  I  don't  know  what, 
I  believe  a  simple  physical  dislike,  made  me  refuse  that 
altogether. 

"  One  evening  I  have  particular  cause  to  remember, 
both  for  itselfj  and  because  of  something  that  followed 


rUE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  139 

many  years  after.  I  was  in  the  drawing-room  on  the 
first  floor,  a  double  room  with  folding  doors  and  a  small 
cabinet  behind  communicating  with  a  back  stair;  for 
the  stairs  were  double  all  through  the  house,  adding 
much  to  the  eeriness  of  the  place  a-s  I  look  back  upon 
:t  in  my  memory.  I  fear,  in  describing  the  place  so 
minutely,  I  may  have  been  rousing  false  expectations  of 
an  adventure ;  but  I  have  a  reason  for  being  rather 
minute,  though  it  will  not  appear  until  afterwards.  I 
had  been  looking  out  of  the  window  all  the  afternoon 
upon  the  silent  square,  for,  as  it  was  no  thoroughfare,  it 
"vvas  onl}'  enlivened  by  the  passing  and  returning  now 
and  then  of  a  tradesman's  cart ;  and,  as  it  was  winter, 
there  were  no  children  playing  in  the  garden.  It  was 
a  rainy  afternoon.  A  gray  cloud  of  fog  and  soot  hung 
from  the  whole  sky.  About  a  score  of  yellow  leaves  yet 
quivered  on  the  trees,  and  the  statue  of  Queen  Anne 
stood  bleak  and  disconsolate  among  the  bare  branches.  I 
am  afraid  I  am  getting  long-winded,  but  somehow  that 
afternoon  seems  burned  into  me  in  enamel.  I  gazed 
drearily  without  interest.  I  brooded  over  the  past ;  I 
never,  at  this  time,  so  far  as  I  remember,  dreamed  of 
looking  forward.  I  had  no  hope.  It  never  occurred  to 
me  that  things  might  grow  better.  I  was  dull  and 
wretched.  I  may  just  say  here  in  passing,  that  I  think 
this  experience  is  in  a  great  measure  what  has  enabled 
me  tojinderstand  the  peculiar  misery  of  the  poor  in  our 
large  Sowns,  —  they  have  no  hope,  no  impulse  to  look 
forward,  nothing  to  expect  ;  they  live  but  in  the  present, 
and  the  dreariness  of  that  soon  shapes  the  whole  atmos- 
phere of  their  spirits  to  its  own  likeness.  Perhaps  the 
first  thing  one  who  would  help  them  has  to  do  is  to  aid 
the  birth  of  some  small  vital  hope  in  them  ;  that  is  bet- 
ter than  a  thousand  gifts,  especially  those  of  the  ordinary 
kind,  which  mostly  do  harm,  tending  to  keep  them  what 
they  are,  —  a  prey  to  present  and  importunate  wants. 

"■  It  began  to  grow  dark  ;  and,  tired  of  standing,  I  sat 
down  upon  the  floor,  for  there  was  nothing  to  sit  upon 
besides.  There  I  still  sat,  long  after  it  was  quite  dark. 
All   at  once  a  surge  of  self-pity  arose   in   my  heart.     I 


140  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

burst  out  wailing  and  sobbing,  and  cried  aloud,  '  God 
has  forgotten  me  altogether  ! '  The  fact  was,  I  had  had 
no  dinner  that  day,  for  Mrs.  Conan  had  expected  to  re- 
turn long  before  ;  and  the  piece  of  bread  she  had  given 
me,  which  was  all  that  was  in  the  house,  I  had  eaten 
many  hours  ago.  But  I  was  not  thinking  of  my  dinner, 
though  the  want  of  it  may  have  had  to  do  with  this 
burst  of  misery.     What  I  was  really  thinking  of  was, 

—  that  I  could  do  nothing  for  anybody.  My  little  am- 
bition had  always  been  to  be  useful.  I  knew  I  was  of 
some  use  to  my  father ;  for  I  kept  the  rooms  tidy  for 
him,  and  dusted  his  pet  books  —  oh,  so  carefully!  for 
they  were  like  household  gods  to  me.  I  had  also  played 
to  him,  and  I  knew  he  enjoyed  that :  he  said  so,  many 
times.  And  I  had  begun,  though  not  long  before  he 
left  me,  to  think  how  I  should  be  able  to  help  him  bet- 
ter by  and  by.  For  I  saw  that  he  worked  very  hard,  — 
so  hard  that  it  made  him  silent  ;  and  I  knew  that  my 
music-mistress  made  her  livelihood,  partly  at  least,  by 
giving  lessons ;  and  I  thought  that  I  might,  by  and  by, 
be  able  to  give  lessons  too,  and  then  papa  would  not 
require  to  work  so  hard,  for  I  too  should  bring  home 
money  to  pay  for  what  we  wanted.  But  now  I  was  of 
use  to  nobody,  I  said,  and  not  likely  to  become  of  any. 
I  could  not  even  help  poor  Mrs.  Conan,  except  by  doing 
what  a  child  might  do  just  as  well  as  I,  for  I  did  not 
earn  a  penny  of  our  living ;  I  only  gave  the  poor  old 
thing  time  to  work  harder,  that  I  might  eat  up  her  earn- 
ings !  What  added  to  the  misery  was,  that  I  had  always 
thought  of  myself  as  a  lady ;  for  was  not  papa  a 
gentleman,  let  him  be  ever  so  poor?  Shillings  and 
sovereigns  in  his  pocket  could  not  determine  whether  a 
man  was  a  gentleman  or  not !  And  if  he  was  a  gentle- 
man, his  daughter  must  be  a  lady.  But  how  could  I  be 
a  lady  if  I  was  content  to  be  a  burden  to  a  poor  char- 
woman, instead  of  earning  my  own  living,  and  something 
besides  with  which  to  help  her?    For  I  had  the   notion 

—  how  it  came  I  cannot  toll,  thougli  I  know  well  enough 
■whence  it  came  —  that  position  depended  on  how  much 
a  person  was  able  to  help  other  people ;  and  here  I  was, 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  141 

useless,  worse  than  useless  to  anybody!  Why  did  not 
God  remember  me,  if  it  was  only  for  my  father's  sake  ? 
He  was  worth  something,  if  I  was  not !  And  I  would 
be  worth  sometiiing,  if  only  I  had  a  chance!  —  'I  am 
of  no  use,'  I  cried,  '  and  God  has  forgotten  me  altogeth- 
er!' And  I  went  on  weeping  and  moaning  in  my  great 
misery,  until  I  fell  fast  asleep  on  the  floor. 

"I  have  no  theory  about  dreams  and  visions;  and  I 
don't  know  what  you,  Mr.  Walton,  may  think  as  to 
whether  these  ended  with  the  first  ages  of  the  church  ; 
but  surely  if  one  falls  fast  asleep  without  an  idea  in 
one's  head,  and  a  whole  dismal  world  of  misery  in  one's 
heart,  and  wakes  up  quiet  and  refreshed,  without  the 
misery,  and  with  an  idea,  there  can  be  no  great  fanati- 
cism in  thinking  that  the  change  may  have  come  from 
somewhere  near  where  the  miracles  lie, — in  fact,  that 
God  may  have  had  something  —  might  I  not  say  every 
thing  ?  —  to  do  with  it.  For  my  part,  if  I  were  to  learn 
that  he  had  no  hand  in  this  experience  of  mine,  I 
couldn't  help  losing  all  interest  in  it,  and  wishing  that 
I  had  died  of  the  misery  which  it  dispelled.  Certainly, 
if  it  had  a  physical  source,  it  wasn't  that  I  was  more 
comfortable,  for  I  was  hungrier  than  ever,  and,  you 
may  well  fancy,  cold  enough,  having  slept  on  the  bare 
floor  without  any  thing  to  cover  me  on  Christmas  Eve 
—  for  Christmas  Eve  it  was.  No  doubt  my  sleep  had 
done  me  good,  but  I  suspect  the  sleep  came  to  quiet  my 
mind  for  the  reception  of  the  new  idea. 

"  The  way  Mrs.  Conan  kept  Christmas  Day,  as  she  told 
me  in  the  morning,  was,  to  comfort  her  old  bones  in  bed 
until  the  afternoon,  and  then  to  have  a  good  tea  with  a 
chop  ;  after  which  she  said  she  would  have  me  read  the 
Newgate  Calendar  to  her.  So,  as  soon  as  I  had  washed 
up  th3  few  breakfast  things,  I  asked,  if,  while  she  lay  in 
bed,  I  might  not  go  out  for  a  little  while  to  look  for 
work.  She  laughed  at  the  notion  of  my  being  able  to 
do  any  thing,  but  did  not  object  to  my  trying.  So  I 
dressed  myself  as  neatly  as  I  could,  and  set  out. 

"  There  were  two  narrow  streets  full  of  small  shops,  in 
which  those  of  furniture-brokers  predominated,  leading 


142  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

from  the  two  lower  corners  of  the  square  down  into  Ox- 
ford Street ;  and  in  a  shop  in  one  of  these,  I  was  not 
sure  which,  I  had  seen  an  old  piano  standing,  and  a  girl 
of  about  my  own  age  watching.  I  found  tlie  shop  at 
last,  although  it  was  shut  up ;  for  I  knew  the  name, 
and  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  by  a  stout  ma- 
tron, with  a  not  unfriendly  expression,  who  asked  me 
what  I  wanted.  I  told  her  I  wanted  work.  She  seemed 
amused  at  the  idea,  —  for  I  was  very  small  for  my  age 
then  as  well  as  now,  —  but,  apparently  willing  to  have  a 
chat  wdth  me,  asked  what  I  could  do.  I  told  her  I  could 
teach  her  daughter  music.  She  asked  me  what  made 
me  come  to  her,  and  I  told  her.  Then  she  asked  me 
how  much  I  should  charge.  I  told  her  that  some  ladies 
had  a  guinea  a  lesson  ;  at  which  she  laughed  so  heartily, 
that  I  had  to  wait  until  the  first  transports  of  her 
amusement  were  over  before  I  could  finish  by  saying, 
that  for  my  part  I  should  be  glad  to  give  an  hour's  les- 
son for  threepence,  only,  if  she  pleased,  I  should  prefer  it 
in  silver.  But  how  was  she  to  know,  she  asked,  that 
I  could  teach  her  properly.  I  told  her  I  would  let  hei 
hear  me  play ;  whereupon  she  led  me  into  the  shop, 
through  a  back  room  in  which  her  husband  sat  smoking 
a  long  pipe,  with  a  tankard  at  his  elbow.  Having 
taken  down  a  shutter,  she  managed  with  some  difficulty 
to  clear  me  a  j)assage  through  a  crowd  of  furniture  to 
the  instrument,  and  with  a  struggle  I  squeezed  tlirough 
and  reached  it ;  but  at  the  first  chord  I  struck,  I  gave 
a  cry  of  dismay.  In  some  alarm  she  asked  what  was 
the  matter,  calling  me  child  very  kindly.  I  told  her  it 
was  so  dreadfully  out  of  tune  I  couldn't  play  upon  it  at 
all ;  but,  if  she  would  get  it  tuned,  I  should  not  be  long 
in  showing  her  that  I  could  do  what  I  professed.  She 
told  me  she  could  not  afford  to  have  it  tuned ;  and  if  I 
could  not  teach  Bertha  on  it  as  it  was,  she  couldn't 
help  it.  This,  however,  I  assured  her,  was  utterly  im- 
possible;  upon  which,  with  some  show  of  off'ence,  she 
reached  over  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  shut  down  the 
cover.  I  believe  she  doubted  whether  I  could  play  at 
all,  and  had  not  been  merely  amusing  myself  at  her  ex- 


THE   VICAR  S  DAUGHTER.  143 

pense.  Nothing  was  left  but  to  thank  her,  bid  her  good- 
morning,  and  walk  out  of  the  house,  dreadfully  disap- 
pointed. 

"■  Unwilling  to  go  home  at  once,  I  wandered  about 
the  neighborhood,  through  street  after  street,  until  I 
found  myself  in  another  square,  with  a  number  of  busi- 
ness-signs in  it,  —  one  of  them  that  of  a  piano-forte  firm, 
at  sight  of  which,  a  thought  came  into  my  head.  The 
next  morning  I  went  in,  and  requested  to  see  the  mas- 
ter. The  man  to  whom  I  spoke  stared,  no  doubt ;  but  he 
went,  and  returning  after  a  little  while,  during  which 
my  heart  beat  very  fast,  invited  me  to  walk  into  the 
counting-house.  Mr.  Perkins  was  amused  with  tlie  story 
of  my  attempt  to  procure  teaching,  and  its  frustration. 
If  I  had  asked  him  for  money,  to  which  I  do  not  be- 
lieve hunger  itself  could  have  driven  me,  he  would  prob- 
ably have  got  rid  of  me  quickly  enough,  —  and  small 
blame  to  him,  as  Mrs.  Conan  would  have  said ;  but  to 
my  request  that  he  would  spare  a  man  to  tune  Mrs. 
Lampeter's  piano,  he  replied  at  once  that  he  would,  pro- 
vided I  could  satisfy  him  as  to  my  efficiency.  There- 
upon he  asked  me  a  few  questions  abovit  music,  of  wbich 
some  I  could  answer  and  some  I  could  not.  Next  he 
took  me  into  the  shop,  set  me  a  stool  in  front  of  a  grand 
piano,  and  told  me  to  play.  I  could  not  help  trembling 
a  good  deal,  but  I  tried  my  best.  In  a  few  moments, 
however,  the  tears  were  dropping  on  the  ke^'s  ;  and,  when 
he  asked  me  what  was  the  matter,  I  told  him  it  was 
months  since  I  had  touched  a  piano.  The  answer  did 
not,  however,  satisfj'-  him  ;  he  asked  very  kindly  how 
that  was,  and  I  had  to  tell  him  my  whole  story.  Then 
he  not  only  promised  to  have  the  piano  tuned  for  me  at 
once,  but  told  me  that  I  might  go  and  practise  there  as 
often  as  I  pleased,  so  long  as  I  was  a  good  girl,  and  did 
not  take  up  with  bad  company.  Imagine  my  delight ! 
Then  he  sent  for  a  tuner,  and  I  supj^ose  told  him  a  little 
about  me,  for  tlie  man  spoke  very  kindly  to  me  as  we 
went  to  the  broker's. 

''Mr.  Perkins  has  been  a  good  friend  to  me  eversince. 

"  For  six  months  I  continiaed  to  give  Bertha  Lampeter 


144  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

lessons.  They  were  broken  off  only  when  she  went  t« 
a  dressmaker  to  learn  her  business.  But  her  mothei 
had  by  that  time  introduced  me  to  several  families  of 
lier  acquaintance,  amongst  whom  I  found  five  or  six  pu- 
pils on  the  same  terms.  By  this  teaching,  if  I  earned 
little,  I  learned  much ;  and  every  day  almost  I  practised 
at  the  music-shop. 

"  When  the  house  was  let,  Mrs.  Conan  took  a  room 
in  the  neighborhood,  that  I  might  keep  up  my  connec- 
tion, she  said.  Then  first  I  was  introduced  to  scenes 
and  experiences  with  which  I  am  now  familiar.  Mrs. 
Percivale  might  well  recoil  if  I  were  to  tell  her  half  the 
wretchedness,  wickedness,  and  vulgarity  I  have  seen, 
and  often  had  to  encounter.  For  two  years  or  so  we 
chai.ged  about,  at  one  time  in  an  empty  house,  at  an- 
other in  a  hired  room,  sometimes  better,  sometimes  worse 
off,  as  regarded  our  neighbors,  until,  Mrs.  Conan  having 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be  better  for  her  to 
confine  herself  to  charing,  we  at  last  settled  down  here, 
where  I  have  now  lived  for  many  years. 

"  You  may  be  inclined  to  ask  why  I  had  not  kept  up 
my  acquaintance  with  my  music-mistress.  I  believe  the 
shock  of  losing  my  father,  and  the  misery  that  followed, 
made  me  feel  as  if  my  former  world  had  vanished;  at 
all  events,  I  never  thought  of  going  to  her  until  Mr. 
Perkins  one  day,  after  listening  to  something  I  was 
playing,  asked  me  who  had  taught  me  ;  and  this  brought 
her  back  to  my  mind  so  vividly  tliat  I  resolved  to  go 
and  see  her.  She  welcomed  me  with  more  than  kind- 
ness, —  with  tenderness,  —  and  told  me  I  had  caused  her 
much  uneasiness  by  not  letting  her  know  what  had  be- 
come of  me.  She  looked  quite  aghast  when  she  learned 
ill  what  sort  of  place  and  with  whom  I  lived ;  but  I 
told  her  Mrs.  Conan  had  saved  me  from  the  workhouse, 
and  was  as  much  of  a  mother  to  me  as  it  was  possible 
for  her  to  be,  that  we  loved  each  other,  and  that  it  would 
be  very  wrong  of  me  to  leave  her  now,  especially  that 
she  was  not  so  well  as  she  had  been  ;  and  I  believe  she 
then  saw  the  thing  as  I  saw  it.  She  made  me  play  to 
her,  was   pleased,  —  indeed  surprised,  until  I  told  hel 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  145 

how  I  had  heen  supporting  myself,  —  and  insisted  on 
my  resuming  my  studies  with  her,  which  I  was  only  too 
glad  to  do.  I  now,  of  course,  got  on  much  faster ;  and 
she  expressed  satisfaction  with  my  progress,  hut  contin- 
ued manifestly  uneasy  at  the  kind  of  thing  I  had  to 
encounter,  and  become  of  necessity  more  and  more  fa- 
miliar with. 

"  When  Mrs.  Conan  fell  ill,  I  had  indeed  hard  work 
of  it.  Unlike  most  of  her  class,  she  had  laid  by  a  trifle 
of  money  ;  but  as  soon  as  she  ceased  to  add  to  it,  it 
began  to  dwindle,  and  was  very  soon  gone.  Do  what  I 
could  for  a  while,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  kindness  of 
the  neighbors,  I  should  sometimes  have  been  in  want 
of  bread;  and  when  I  hear  hard  things  said  of  the 
poor,  I  often  think  that  surely  improvidence  is  not  so 
bad  as  selfishness.  But,  of  course,  there  are  all  sorts 
amongst  them,  just  as  there  are  all  sorts  in  every  class. 
When  I  went  out  to  teach,  now  one,  now  another  of  the 
women  in  the  house  would  take  charge  of  my  friend; 
and  when  I  came  home,  except  her  guardian  happened 
to  have  got  tipsy,  I  never  found  she  had  been  neglected. 
Miss  Harper  said  I  must  raise  my  terms  ;  but  I  told  her 
that  would  be  the  loss  of  my  pupils.  Then  she  said  she 
must  see  what  could  be  done  for  me,  only  no  one  she 
knew  was  likely  to  employ  a  child  like  me,  if  I  were  able 
to  teach  ever  so  well.  One  morning,  however,  within  a 
week,  a  note  came  from  Lady  Bernard,  asking  me  to  go 
and  see  her. 

"  I  went,  and  found  —  a  mother.  You  do  not  know 
her,  I  think?  But  you  must  one  day.  Good  people 
like  you  must  come  together.  I  will  not  attempt  to  de- 
scribe her.  She  awed  me  at  first,  and  I  could  hardly 
speak  to  her,  —  I  was  not  much  more  than  thirteen 
then ;  but  with  the  awe  came  a  certain  confidence  which 
was  far  better  than  ease.  The  immediate  result  was, 
that  she  engaged  me  to  go  and  play  for  an  hour,  five 
days  a  week,  at  a  certain  hospital  for  sick  children  in 
the  neighborhood,  which  she  partly  supported.  For  she' 
had  a  strong  belief  that  there  was  in  music  a  great  heal- 
ing power.     Her  theory  was,  that   all  healing  energy 

13 


146  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGIirEU. 

oper.ates  first  on  the  mind,  and  from  it  passes  to  the 
body,  and  that  medicines  render  aid  only  by  removing 
certain  pliysical  obstacles  to  the  healing  force.  She  be- 
lieves that  when  music  operating  on  the  mind  has  pro- 
cured the  peace  of  harmony,  the  peace  in  its  turn  oper- 
ates outward,  reducing  the  vital  powers  also  into  the 
harmonious  action  of  health.  How  much  there  may  be 
in  it,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  do  think  that  good  has  been 
and  is  the  result  of  my  playing  to  those  children  ;  for  I 
go  still,  though  not  quite  so  often,  and  it  is  music  to  me 
to  watch  my  music  tlirown  back  in  light  from  some  of 
those  sweet,  pale,  suffering  faces.  She  was  too  wise  to 
pay  me  much  for  it  at  first.  She  inquired,  before  making 
me  the  offer,  how  much  I  was  already  earning,  asked  me 
upon  how  much  I  could  support  Mrs.  Conan  and  myself 
comfortably,  ..find  then  made  the  sum  of  my  weekly  earn- 
ings up  to  that  amount.  At  the  same  time,  however, 
she  sent  many  things  to  warm  and  feed  the  old  woman, 
so  that  my  mind  was  set  at  ease  about  her.  She  got  a 
good  deal  better  for  a  while,  but  continued  to  suffer  so 
much  from  rheumatism,  that  she  was  quite  unfit  to  go 
out  charing  any  more  ;  and  I  would  not  hear  of  hei 
again  exposing  herself  to  the  damps  and  draughts  of 
empty  houses,  so  long  as  I  was  able  to  provide  for  her, 
—  of  which  ability  you  may  be  sure  I  was  not  a  little 
proud  at  first. 

"  I  have  been  talking  for  a  long  time,  and  yet  may 
seem  to  have  said  nothing  to  account  for  your  finding 
me  where  she  left  me ;  but  I  will  try  to  come  to  the 
point  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"  Before  she  was  entirely  laid  up,  we  had  removed  to 
this  place,  — a  rough  shelter,  but  far  less  so  than  some 
of  the  houses  in  which  we  had  been.  I  remember  one 
in  which  I  used  to  dart  up  and  down  like  a  hunted  hare 
at  one  time ;  at  another  to  steal  along  from  stair  to  stair 
like  a  well-meaning  ghost  afraid  of  frightening  people; 
my  mode  of  procedure  depending  in  part  on  the  time  of 
day,  and  which  of  the  inhabitants  I  had  reason  to  dread 
meeting.  It  was  a  good  while  before  the  inmates  of 
this  house  and  I  began  to  know  each  other.     The  land- 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  147 

lord  had  turned  out  the  former  tenant  of  this  garret 
after  she  had  been  long  enough  in  the  house  for  all  the 
rest  to  know  her;  and,  notwithstanding  she  had  been 
no  great  favorite,  they  all  took  her  part  against  the 
landlord ;  and  fancjnng,  perhaps  because  we  kept  more 
to  ourselves,  that  we  were  his  protegees,  and  that  he  had 
turned  out  Muggj^  Moll,  as  they  called  her,  to  make 
room  for  us,  regarded  us  from  the  first  with  disapproba- 
tion. The  little  girls  would  make  grimaces  at  me,  and 
the  bigger  girls  would  pull  my  hair,  slap  my  face,  and 
even  occasionally  push  me  down  stairs,  while  the  boys 
made  themselves  far  more  terrible  in  my  eyes.  But 
some  remark  happening  to  be  dropped  one  day,  which 
led  the  landlord  to  disclaim  all  previous  knowledge  of 
us,  things  began  to  grow  better.  And  this  is  not  by 
any  means  one  of  the  worst  parts  of  London.  I  could 
take  Mr.  Walton  to  houses  in  the  East  End,  where  the 
manners  are  indescribable.  We  are  all  earning  our 
bread  here.  Some  have  an  occasional  attack  of  drunk- 
enness, and  idle  about;  but  they  are  sick  of  it  again 
after  a  while.  I  remember  asking  a  woman  once  if  her 
husband  would  be  present  at  a  little  entertainment  to 
which  Lady  Bernard  had  invited  them  :  she  answered 
that  he  would  be  there  if  he  was  drunk,  but  if  he  was 
sober  he  couldn't  spare  the  time. 

"  Very  soon  they  began  to  ask  me  after  Mrs.  Conan  ; 
and  one  day  I  invited  one  of  them,  who  seemed  a  decent 
though  not  very  tidy  woman,  to  walk  up  and  see  her; 
for  I  was  anxious  she  should  have  a  visitor  now  and 
then  when  I  was  out,  as  she  complained  a  good  deal  of 
the  loneliness.  The  woman  consented,  and  ever  after 
was  very  kind  to  her.  But  my  main  stay  and  comfort 
was  an  old  woman  who  then  occupied  the  room  opposite 
to  this.  She  was  such  a  good  creature  !  Nearly  blind, 
she  yet  kept  her  room  the  very  pink  of  neatness.  I 
never  saw  a  speck  of  dust  on  that  chest  of  di-awers, 
which  was  hers  then,  and  which  she  valued  fur  more 
than  many  a  rich  man  values  the  house  of  his  ancestors, 
—  not  only  because  it  had  been  her  mother's,  but  because 
"it  bore   testimony  to   the   respectability  of  her  family. 


148  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

Her  floor  and  lior  little  muslin  winclow-curtain,  her  bed 
find  every  thing  about  her,  were  as  clean  as  lady  could 
desire.  She  objected  to  move  into  a  better  room  below, 
which  the  landlord  kindly  offered  her, — for  she  was  a 
favorite  from  having  been  his  tenant  a  long  time  and 
never  having  given  him  any  trouble  in  collecting  her 
rent,  —  on  the  ground  that  there  were  two  windows  in 
it,  and  therefore  too  much  liglit  for  her  bits  of  furniture. 
They  would,  she  said,  look  nothing  in  that  room.  She 
was  very  pleased  when  I  asked  her  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mrs. 
Conan ;  and  as  she  belonged  to  a  far  higher  intellectual 
grade  than  my  protectress,  and  as  she  had  a  strong  prac- 
tical sense  of  religion,  chiefly  manifested  in  a  willing 
acceptance  of  the  decrees  of  Providence,  I  think  she  did 
us  both  good.  I  wish  I  could  draw  you  a  picture  of  her 
coming  in  at  that  door,  with  her  all  but  sightless  eyes, 
the  broad  borders  of  her  white  cap  waving,  and  her 
hands  stretched  out  before  her;  for  she  was  more  appre- 
hensive than  if  she  had  been  quite  blind,  because  she 
could  see  things  without  knowing  what,  or  even  in  what 
position  they  were.  The  most  remarkable  thing  to  me 
was  the  calmness  with  which  she  looked  forward  to  her 
approaching  death,  although  without  the  expectation 
which  so  many  good  people  seem  to  have  in  connection 
with  their  departure.  I  talked  to  her  about  it  more 
than  once,  —  not  with  any  presumption  of  teaching  her, 
for  I  felt  she  was  far  before  me,  but  just  to  find,  out  how 
she  felt  and  what  she  believed.  Her  answer  amounted 
to  this,  that  she  had  never  known  beforehand  what  lay 
round  the  next  corner,  or  what  was  going  to  happen  to 
hei,  for  if  Providence  had  meant  her  to  know,  it  could 
not  be  by  going  to  fortune-tellers,  as  some  of  the  neigh- 
bors did;  but  that  she  alwaj^s  found  things  turn  out 
right  and  good  for  her,  and  she  did  not  doubt  she  would 
find  it  so  when  she  came  to  the  last  turn. 

"  By  degrees  I  knew  everybody  in  the  house,  and  of 
course  I  was  ready  to  do  what  I  could  to  help  any  of 
them.  I  had  much  to  lift  me  into  a  higher  region  of 
mental  comfort  than  was  open  to  them;  for  I  had  music, 
and  Lady  Bernard  lent  me  books. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  149 

"  Of  course  also  I  kept  my  rooms  as  clean  and  tidy 
as  I  could  ;  and  indeed,  if  I  had  been  more  carelessly  in- 
clined in  that  way,  the  sight  of  the  blind  woman's  would 
have  been  a  constant  reminder  to  me.  By  degrees  also 
I  was  able  to  get  a  few  more  articles  of  furniture  for  it, 
and  a  bit  of  carpet  to  put  down  before  the  fire.  I  white- 
washed the  walls  myself,  and  after  a  while  began  to 
whitewash  the  walls  of  the  landing  as  well,  and  all  down 
the  stair,  which  was  not  of  much  use  to  the  eye,  for  there 
is  no  light.  Before  long  some  of  the  other  tenants  be- 
gan to  whitewash  their  rooms  also,  and  contrive  to  keep 
things  a  little  tidier.  Others  declared  they  had  no 
opinion  of  such  uppish  notions ;  they  weren't  for  the 
likes  of  them.  These  were  generally  such  as  would  re- 
joice in  wearing  finery  picked  up  at  the  rag-shop ;  but 
even  some  of  them  began  by  degrees  to  cultivate  a  small 
measure  of  order.  Soon  this  one  and  that  began  to  ap- 
ply to  me  for  help  in  various  difficulties  that  arose.  But 
they  didn't  begin  to  call  me  grannie  for  a  long  time 
after  this.  They  used  then  to  call  the  blind  woman 
grannie,  and  the  name  got  associated  with  the  top  of  the 
house;  and  I  came  to  be  associated  with  it  because  I  also 
lived  there  and  we  were  friends.  After  her  death,  it 
was  used  from  habit,  at  first  with  a  feeling  of  mistake, 
seeing  its  immediate  owner  was  gone  ;  but  by  degrees  it 
settled  down  upon  me,  and  I  came  to  be  called  grannie 
by  everybody  in  the  house.  Even  Mrs.  Conan  would 
not  unfrequently  address  me,  and  speak  of  me  too,  as 
grannie,  at  first  with  a  laugh,  but  soon  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

''  I  got  by  and  by  a  few  pupils  amongst  tradespeople 
of  a  class  rather  superior  to  that  in  which  I  had  begun 
to  teach,  and  from  whom  I  cauld  ask  and  obtain  double 
my  former  fee  ;  so  that  things  grew,  with  fluctuations, 
gradually  better.  Lady  Bernard  continued  a  true  friend 
to  me — but  she  never  was  other  than  that  to  any. 
Some  of  her  friends  ventured  on  the  experiment  whether 
I  could  teach  their  children  ;  and  it  is  ru)  wonder  if  they 
were  satisfied,  seeing  I  had  myself  such  a  teacher. 

•'  Having  come  once  or  twice  to  see  Mrs.  Conan,  she 

13* 


150  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

discovered  that  we  were  gaining  a  little  influence  over 
the  people  in  the  house ;  and  it  occurred  to  her,  as 
she  told  mo  afterwards,  that  the  virtue  of  music  might 
be  tried  there  with  a  vioral  end  in  view.  Hence  it 
came  that  I  was  beyond  measure  astonished  and  de- 
lighted one  evening  by  the  arrival  of  a  piano,  —  not  that 
one,  for  it  got  more  worn  than  I  liked,  and  I  was  able 
afterwards  to  exchange  it  for  a  better.  I  found  it  an 
invaluable  aid  in  the  endeavor  to  work  out  my  glowing 
desire  of  getting  the  people  about  me  into  a  better  con- 
dition. First  I  asked  some  of  the  children  to  come  and 
listen  while  I  played.  Everybody  knows  how  fond  the 
least  educated  children  are  of  music ;  and  I  feel  assured 
of  its  elevating  power.  Whatever  the  street-organs  may 
be  to  poets  and  mathematicians,  they  are  certainly  a 
godsend  to  the  children  of  our  courts  and  alleys.  The 
music  takes  possession  of  them  at  once,  and  sets  them 
moving  to  it  with  rhythmical  grace.  I  should  have 
been  very  sorry  to  make  it  a  condition  with  those  I  in- 
vited, that  they  should  sit  still :  to  take  from  them  their 
personal  share  in  it  would  have  been  to  destroy  half  the 
cliarm  of  the  thing.  A  far  higher  development  is  need- 
ful before  music  can  be  enjoyed  in  silence  and  motion- 
lessness.  The  only  condition  I  made  was,  that  they 
should  come  with  clean  hands  and  faces,  and  with  tidy 
hair.  Considerable  indignation  was  at  first  manifested 
on  the  part  of  those  parents  whose  children  1  refused 
to  admit  because  they  bad  neglected  the  condition. 
This  necessity,  however,  did  not  often  occur ;  and  the 
anger  passed  away,  while  the  condition  gathered  weight. 
After  a  while,  guided  by  what  some  of  the  children  let 
fall,  I  began  to  invite  the  mothers  to  join  them  ;  and  at 
length  it  came  to  be  understood  that,  every  Saturday 
evening,  whoever  chose  to  make  herself  tidy  would  be 
welcome  to  an  hour  or  two  of  my  music.  Some  of  the 
husbands  next  began  to  come,  but  there  were  never  so 
many  of  them  present.  I  may  just  add,  that  although 
the  manners  of  some  of  my  audience  would  be  very 
ehocking  to  cultivated  people,  and  I  understand  perfectly 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  151 

how  tliey  must  be  so,  I  am  very  rarely  annoyed  on  such 
occasions. 

"  I  must  now  glance  at  another  point  in  my  history, 
one  on  which  I  cannot  dwell.      Never  since  my  father's 
death    had   I    attended  public    worship.     Nothing  had 
drawn  me  thither;  and  I  hardly  know  what  induced  me 
one   ev^ening  to  step    into   a   chapel  of   which   I  knew 
nothing.     There  was  not  even  Sunday  to  account  for  it. 
I  believe,  however,  it  had  to  do  with  this,  that  all   day 
I  had  been  feeling  tired.     I  think  people  are  often  ready 
to   suppose   that  their  bodily  condition  is  the  cause  of 
their  spiritual  discomfort,  when  it  may  be  only  the  occa- 
sion upon  which  some  inward  lack  reveals  itself.     That 
the  spiritual  nature  should  be  incapable  of  meeting  and 
sustaining  the  body  in  its  troubles   is  of  itself  sufficient 
to  show  that  it  is  not  in  a  satisfactory  condition.     For  a 
long  time  the  struggle  for  mere  existence  had  almost  ab- 
sorbed  my   energies ;    but   things    had  been    easier  for 
some  time,  and  a  re-action  had  at  length  come.      It  was 
not   that   I  could  lay    an}"    thing    definite  to    my  own 
charge  ;   I  only  felt  empt}^  all  tlirough  ;  I  felt  that  some- 
thing was  not  right  with  me,  that  something  was  required 
of  me  which  I  was  not  rendering.     I  could  not,  however, 
have   told  you  what  it  was.    Possibly  the    feeling  had 
been  for  some  time  growing ;  but  that  day,  so  far  as  I 
can  tell,  I  was  first  aware  of  it ;  and  I  presume  it  was 
the   dim  cause   of  my  turning  at   the   sound  of  a  few 
singing  voices,  and  entering  that  chapel.     I  found  about 
a  dozen  people   present.     Something  in   the  air  of  the 
place,  meagre  and  waste  as  it  looked,  yet  induced  me  to 
remain.     An  address  followed  from  a  pale-faced,  weak- 
looking  man  of  middle  age,  who  had  no  gift  of  person, 
voice,  or  utterance,  to   recommend   what   he  said.     But 
there  dwelt  a  more  powerful  enforcement  in  him   than 
any  of  those,  —  that  of  earnestness.     I  went  again,  and 
again ;   and  slowly,  I  cannot  well  explain  how,  the  sense 
of  life  and  its  majesty  grew  upon  me.     Mr.  Walton  will, 
I  trust,  understand  me  when  I    say,  that   to  one  hun- 
gering for  bread,  it  is  of  little  consequence  in  what  sort 
of   platter  it  is  handed   him.      This  was   a  dissenting 


152  TUE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

chapel,  —  of  what  order,  it  was  long  before  I  knew,  — • 
and  my  predilection  was  for  the  Church-services,  those  to 
which  my  father  had  accustomed  me  ;  but  any  compari- 
son of  tlie  two  to  the  prejudice  of  either,  I  should  still 
.  —  although  a  communicant  of  the  Church  of  England 
—  regard  with  absolute  indifference. 

"  It  will  be  suflScient  for  my  present  purpose  to  allude 
to  the  one  practical  thought  which  was  the  main  fruit 
I  gathered  from  this  good  man,  — the  fruit  by  which  I 
know  that  he  was  good.^  It  was  this,  —  that  if  all  the 
labor  of  God,  as  my  teacher  said,  was  to  bring  sons  into 
glory,  lifting  them  out  of  the  abyss  of  evil  bondage  up 
to  the  rock  of  his  pure  freedom,  the  only  worthy  end 
of  life  must  be  to  work  in  the  same  direction,  —  to  be  a 
fellow-worker  with  God.  Might  I  not,  then,  do  some- 
thing such,  in  my  small  way,  and  lose  no  jot  of  my  labor? 
I  thought.  The  urging,  the  hope,  grew  in  me.  But  I 
was  not  left  to  feel  blindly  after  some  new  and  un- 
known method  of  labor.  My  teacher  taught  me  that 
the  way  for  vie  to  help  others  was  not  to  tell  them  their 
duty,  but  myself  to  learn  of  Him  who  bore  our  griefs 
and  carried  our  sorrows.  As  I  learned  of  him,  I  should 
be  able  to  help  them.  I  have  never  had  any  theory  but 
just  to  be  their  friend,  —  to  do  for  them  the  best  I  can. 
When  I  feel  I  may,  I  tell  them  what  has  done  me  good, 
but  I  never  urge  any  belief  of  mine  upon  their  accept- 
ance. 

"  It  will  now  seem  no  more  wonderful  to  you  than  to 
me,  that  I  should  remain  where  I  am.  I  simply  have 
no  choice.  I  was  sixteen  when  Mrs.  Conan  died.  Then 
my  friends,  amongst  whom  Lady  Bernard  and  Miss 
Harper  have  ever  been  first,  expected  me  to  remove  to 
lodgings  in  another  neighborhood.  Indeed,  Lady  Ber- 
nard came  to  see  me,  and  said  she  knew  precisely  the 
place  for  me.  When  I  told  her  I  should  remain  where 
I  was,  she  was  silent,  and  soon  left  me,  —  I  thought  of- 
fended.    I  wrote  to  her  at  once,  explaining  why  1  chose 

'  Something  like  tliis  is  the  interpretation  of  the  word :  "  By  their  fruits 
ye  shall  know  them,"  given  by  Mr.  Maurice, — an  interpretation  which 
opens  much.  —  G.  M.  D . 


THE   VICAR'S   DAUOnTER.  153 

my  part  here  ;  saying  that  I  would  not  hastily  alter  any 
thing  that  had  been  appointed  me  ;  that  I  loved  the 
people  ;  that  they  called  me  grannie  ;  that  they  came 
to  me  with  their  troubles  ;  that  there  were  few  changes 
:n  the  house  now ;  that  the  sick  looked  to  me  for  help, 
and  the  children  for  teacliing ;  that  they  seemed  to  be 
steadily  rising  in  the  moral  scale  ;  that  1  knew  some  of 
thom  were  ti'yi^^g  hard  to  be  good ;  and  I  put  it  to  her 
whether,  if  I  were  to  leave  them,  in  order  merely,  as 
servants  say,  to  better  myself,  I  should  not  be  forsaking 
my  post,  almost  my  family ;  for  I  knew  it  would  not  be 
to  better  either  myself  or  my  friends  :  if  I  was  at  all 
necessary  to  them,  I  knew  they  were  yet  more  necessary 
to  me. 

"  I  have  a  burning  desire  to  help  in  the  making  of 
the  world  clean,  —  if  it  be  only  by  sweeping  one  little 
room  in  it.  I  want  to  lead  some  poor  stray  sheep  home 
—  not  home  to  the  church,  Mr.  Walton  —  I  would  not 
be  supposed  to  curry  favor  with  you,  I  never  think  of 
what  they  call  the  church.  I  only  care  to  lead  them 
home  to  the  bosom  of  God,  where  alone  man  is  true 
man. 

"  I  could  talk  to  you  all  night  about  what  Lady  Ber- 
nard has  been  to  me  since,  and  what  she  has  done  for 
me  and  my  grandchildren  ;  but  I  have  said  enough  to 
explain  how  it  is  that  I  am  in  such  a  questionable  po- 
sition. I  fear  I  have  been  guilty  of  much  egotism,  and 
have  shown  my  personal  feelings  with  too  little  reserve. 
But  I  cast  myself  on  your  mercy." 


CHAPTER   XX. 

A   REMARKABLE   FACT. 

A  SILENCE  followed,  I  need  hardly  say  we  had  lis- 
tened intently.  During  the  story  my  father  had 
scarcely  interrupted  the  narrator.  I  had  not  spoken  a 
word.  She  had  throughout  maintained  a  certain  mat- 
ter-of-fact, almost  cold  st_yle,  no  doubt  because  she  was 
herself  the  subject  of  her  story;  but  we  could  read  be- 
tween tlie  lines,  imagine  much  she  did  not  say,  and  sup- 
ply color  when  she  gave  only  outline ;  and  it  moved  us 
both  deeply.  My  father  sat  perfectly  composed,  betray- 
ing his  emotion  in  silence  alone.  For  myself,  I  had  a 
great  lump  in  my  thi'oat,  but  in  part  from  the  shame 
which  mingled  with  my  admiration.  The  silence  had 
not  lasted  more  than  a  few  seconds,  when  I  yielded  to 
a  struggling  impulse,  rose,  and  kneeling  before  her,  put 
my  hands  on  her  knees,  said,  "  Forgive  me,  "  and  could 
say  no  more.  She  put  her  hand  on  my  shoulder,  whis- 
pered. "  My  dear  Mrs.  Percivale  ! "  bent  down  her  face, 
and  kissed  me  on  the  forehead. 

''How  could  you  help  being  shy  of  me?"  she  said. 
"Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  come  to  you  and  explained  it 
all ;  but  I  shrink  from  self-justification,  —  at  least  before 
a  fit  opportunity  makes  it  comparatively  easj'." 

"  That  is  the  way  to  give  it  all  its  force,"  remarked 
my  father. 

"I  suppose  it  may  be,"  she  returned.  "But  I  hate 
talking  about  myself:  it  is  an  unpleasant  subject." 

"  Most  people  do  not  find  it  such,"  said  my  father.  "  I 
could  not  honestly  say  that  I  do  not  enjoy  talking  of  my 
own  experiences  of  life." 

"But  there  are  differences,  you  see,"  she   rejoined. 

154 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  155 

"  My  history  looks  to  me  such  a  matter  of  course,  such 
a  something  I  could  not  help,  or  have  avoided  if  I  would, 
that  the  telling  of  it  is  unpleasant,  because  it  implies  an 
importance  which  does  not  belong  to  it." 

"St.  Paul  saj's  something  of  the  same  sort,  —  that  a 
necessity  of  preaching  the  gospel  was  laid  upon  him," 
remarked  my  father;  but  it  seemed  to  make  no  impres- 
sion on  Miss  Clare,  for  she  went  on  as  if  she  had  not 
heard  him. 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Walton,  it  is  not  in  the  least  as  if, 
living  in  comfort,  I  had  taken  notice  of  the  misery  of 
the  poor  for  the  want  of  such  sympathy  and  help  as  I 
could  give  them,  and  had  therefore  gone  to  live  amongst 
them  that  I  might  so  help  them:  it  is  quite  different 
from  that.  If  I  had  done  so,  I  might  be  in  danger  of 
magnifying  not  merely  my  office  but  myself.  On  the 
contrary,  I  have  been  trained  to  it  in  such  slow  and  ne- 
cessitous ways,  that  it  would  be  a  far  greater  trial  to  me 
to  forsake  my  work  than  it  has  ever  been  to  continue 
it." 

1.  My  father  said  no  more,  but  I  knew  he  had  his  own 
thoughts.  I  remained  kneeling,  and  felt  for  the  first 
time  as  if  I  understood  what  had  led  to  saint-worship. 

''Won't  you  sit,  Mrs.  Percivale?"  she  said,  as  if 
merely  expostulating  with  me  for  not  making  myself 
comfortable. 

"■  Have  you  forgiven  me  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  How  can  I  say  I  have,  when  I  never  had  any  thing 
to  forgive  ?  " 

"Well,  then,  I  must  go  unforgiven,  for  I  cannot  for- 
give mj'self,"  I  said. 

"  0  Mrs.  Percivale  !  if  you  think  how  the  world  is 
flooded  with  forgiveness,  you  will  just  dip  in  your  cup, 
and  take  what  you  want." 

I  felt  that  I  was  making  too  much  even  of  my  own 
shame,  rose  humbled,  and  took  my  former  seat. 

Narration  being  over,  and  my  father's  theory  now  per- 
mitting him  to  ask  questions,  he  did  so  plentifully, 
bringing  out  many  lights,  and  elucidating  several  ob- 
scurities.    The  story  grew  upon  me,  until  the  work  to 


156  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

which  Miss  Clare  had  given  herself  seemed  more  like 
that  of  the  Son  of  God  than  any  other  I  knew.  For  she 
•was  not  helping  her  friends  from  afar,  hut  as  one  of 
themselves,  —  nor  with  money,  hut  with  herself ;  she  was 
not  condescending  to  them,  but  finding  her  highest  life 
in  companionship  with  them.  It  seemed  at  least  more 
like  what  his  life  must  have  been  before  he  was  thirty, 
than  any  thing  else  I  could  think  of  I  held  my  peace 
however  ;  for  I  felt  that  to  hint  at  such  a  thought  would 
have  greatly  shocked  and  pained  her. 

No  doubt  the  narrative  I  have  given  is  plainer  and 
more  coherent  for  the  questions  my  father  put ;  but  it 
loses  much  from  the  omission  of  one  or  two  parts  which 
she  gave  dramatically,  with  evident  enjoyment  of  the 
fun  that  was  in  them.  I  have  also  omitted  all  the  in- 
terruptions which  came  from  her  not  unfrequent  refer- 
ence to  my  father  on  points  that  came  up.  At  length  I 
ventured  to  remind  her  of  something  she  seemed  to  have 
forgotten. 

"  When  you  were  telling  us,  Miss  Clare,"  I  said,  "  of 
the  help  that  came  to  you  that  dreary  afternoon  in  the 
empty  house,  I  think  j'ou  mentioned  that  something 
which  happened  afterwards  made  it  still  more  remark- 
able." 

*■'  Oh,  yes !  "  she  answered  :  "  I  forgot  about  that.  I  did 
not  carry  my  history  far  enough  to  be  reminded  of  it 
again. 

"  Somewhere  about  five  years  ago,  Lady  Bernard, 
having  several  schemes  on  foot  for  helping  such  people 
as  I  was  interested  in,  asked  me  if  it  would  not  be  nice 
to  give  an  entertainment  to  my  friends,  and  as  many 
of  the  neighbors  as  I  pleased,  to  the  number  of  about  a 
hundred.  She  wanted  to  put  the  thing  entirely  in  my 
hands,  and  it  should  be  my  entertainment,  she  claim- 
ing only  the  privilege  of  defraying  expenses.  I  told  her 
I  should  be  delighted  to  convey  her  invitation,  but  that 
the  entertainment  must  not  pretend  to  be  mine  ;  which, 
besides  that  it  would  be  a  falsehood,  and  therefore  not  to 
be  thought  of,  would  perplex  my  friends,  and  drive  them 
to  the  conclusion  either  that  it  was  not  mine,  or  that  I 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  157 

lived  amongst  tliem  under  false  appearances.  She  con- 
fessed the  force  of  my  arguments,  and  let  me  have  it 
my  own  way. 

"  She  had  bought  a  large  house  to  be  a  home  foi 
young  women  out  of  employment,  and  in  it  she  proposed 
the  entertainment  should  be  given:  there  were  a  good 
many  nice  young  women  inmates  at  the  time,  who,  she 
said,  would  be  all  willing  to  help  us  to  wait  upon  our 
guests.  The  idea  was  carried  out,  and  the  thing  suc- 
ceeded admirably.  We  had  music  and  games,  the  latter 
such  as  the  children  were  mostly  acquainted  with,  only 
producing  more  merriment  and  conducted  with  more 
propriety  than  were  usual  in  the  court  or  the  streets.  I 
may  just  remark,  in  passing,  that,  had  these  been  chil- 
dren of  the  poorest  sort,  we  should  have  had  to  teach 
them ;  for  one  of  the  saddest  things  is  that  such,  in 
London  at  least,  do  not  know  how  to  \)\ay.  We  had  tea 
and  coffee  and  biscuits  in  the  lower  rooms,  for  any  who 
pleased  ;  and  they  were  to  have  a  solid  supper  after- 
wards. With  none  of  the  arrangements,  however,  had 
I  any  thing  to  do ;  for  my  business  was  to  be  with  them, 
and  help  them  to  enjoy  themselves.  All  went  on  capi- 
tally ;  the  parents  entering  into  the  merriment  of  their 
children,  and  helping  to  keep  it  up. 

"  In  one  of  the  games,  I  was  seated  on  the  floor  with 
a  handkerchief  tied  over  my  eyes,  waiting,  I  believe,  for 
some  gentle  trick  to  be  played  upon  me,  that  I  might 
guess  at  the  name  of  the  person  who  played  it.  There 
was  a  delay — of  only  a  few  seconds  —  long  enough, 
however,  for  a  sudden  return  of  that  dreary  November 
afternoon  in  which  I  sat  on  the  floor  too  miserable  even 
to  think  that  I  was  cold  and  hungry.  Strange  to  saj^, 
it  was  not  the  picture  of  it  that  came  back  to  me  first, 
but  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  calling  aloud  in  the  ring- 
ing echo  of  the  desolate  rooms  that  I  was  of  no  use  to 
anybody,  and  that  God  had  forgotten  me  utterly.  With 
the  recollection,  a  doubtful  expectation  arose  which 
moved  me  to  a  scarce  controllable  degree.  I  jumped  to 
my  feet,  and  tore  the  bandage  from  my  eyes. 

"  Several  times  during  the  evening  I  had  had  the  odd 
14 


158  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

yet  well-known  feeling  of  the  same  thing  having  hap- 
pened before ;  but  I  was  too  busy  .entertaining  my 
friends  to  try  to  account  for  it:  perhaps  what  followed 
may  suggest  the  theorj'^,  that  in  not  a  few  of  such  casea 
the  indistinct  remembrance  of  the  previous  occurrence 
of  some  portion  of  the  circumstances  may  cast  the  hue 
of  memory  over  the  whole.  As  —  my  eyes  blinded  with 
the  light  and  straining  to  recover  themselves  —  I  stared 
about  the  room,  the  presentiment  grew  almost  conviction 
that  it  was  the  very  room  in  which  I  had  so  sat  in  deso- 
lation and  despair.  Unable  to  restrain  myself,  I  hurried 
into  the  back  room  :  there  was  the  cabinet  beyond  !  In 
a  few  moments  more  I  was  absolutely  satisfied  that  this 
was  indeed  the  house  in  which  I  had  first  found  refuge. 
For  a  time  I  could  take  no  further  share  in  wliat  was 
going  on,  but  sat  down  in  a  corner,  and  cried  for  ]oy. 
Some  one  went  for  Lady  Bernard,  who  was  superintend- 
ing the  arrangements  for  supper  in  the  music-room  be- 
hind. She  came  in  alarm.  I  told  her  there  was  nothing 
the  matter  but  a  little  too  much  happiness,  and,  if  she 
would  come  into  the  cabinet,  I  would  tell  her  all  about 
it.  She  did  so,  and  a  few  words  made  her  a  hearty 
sharer  in  my  pleasure.  She  insisted  that  I  should  tell 
the  company  all  about  it;  'for'  she  said,  'you  do  not 
know  how  much  it  may  help  some  poor  creature  to  trust 
in  God.'  I  promised  I  would,  if  I  found  I  could  com- 
mand myself  sufiiciently.  She  left  me  alone  for  a  little 
while,  and  after  that  I  was  able  to  join  in  the  games 
again. 

"  At  supper  I  found  myself  quite  composed,  and,  at 
Lady  Bernard's  request,  stood  up,  and  gave  them  all  a 
little  sketch  of  grannie's  history,  of  which  sketch  what 
had  happened  that  evening  was  made  the  central  point. 
Many  of  the  simpler  hearts  about  me  received  it,  with- 
out question,  as  a  divine  arrangement  for  my  comfort 
and  encouragement,  —  at  least,  thus  I  interpreted  their 
looks  to  each  other,  and  the  remarks  that  reached  my 
ear  ;  but  presently  a  man  stood  up,  —  one  who  thought 
more  than  the  rest  of  them,  perhaps  because  he  was  blind, 
—  a  man  at  once  conceited,  honest,  and  sceptical ;  and 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  159 

silence  liaving  been  made  for  him,  —  '  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men,' he  began,, as  if  he  had  been  addressing  a  public 
meeting,  'you've  all  heard  what  grannie  has  said.  It's 
very  kind  of  her  to  give  us  so  much  of  her  history.  It's 
a  very  remarkable  one,  /  think,  and  she  deserves  to 
have  it.  As  to  what  upset  her  this  very  night  as  is,  — 
and  I  must  say  for  her,  I've  knowed  her  now  for  six 
years,  and  I  never  knowed  7ier  upset  afore,  —  and  as  to 
what  upset  her,  all  I  can  say  is,  it  may  or  may  not  ha' 
been  what  phylosophers  call  a  coincydence  ;  but  at  the 
same  time,  if  it  wasn't  a  coincydence,  and  if  the 
Almighty  had  a  hand  in  it,  it  were  no  more  than  you 
might  expect.  He  would  look  at  it  in  this  light,  you 
see,  that  maybe  she  was  wrong  to  fancy  herself  so  down 
on  her  luck  as  all  that,  but  she  was  a  good  soul,  notwith- 
standin,'  and  he  would  let  her  know  he  hadn't  forgotten 
her.  And  so  he  set  her  down  in  that  room  there,  —  wi' 
her  eyes  like  them  here  o'  mine,  as  never  was  no  man- 
ner o'  use  to  me, — for  a  minute,  jest  to  put  her  in 
mind  o'  what  had  been,  and  what  she  had  said  there, 
an'  how  it  was  all  so  different  now.  In  my  opinion,  it 
were  no  wonder  as  she  broke  down,  God  bless  her !  I 
beg  leave  to  propose  her  health.'  So  they  drank  my 
health  in  lemonade  and  ginger-beer;  for  we  were  afraid 
to  give  some  of  them  stronger  drink  than  tliat,  and 
therefore  had  none.  Then  we  had  more  music  and 
singing;  and  a  clergyman,  who  knew  how  to  be  neigh- 
bor to  them  that  had  fallen  among  thieves,  read  a  short 
chapter  and  a  collect  or  two,  and  said  a  few  words  to 
them.  Then  grannie  and  her  children  went  home  to- 
gether, all  happy,  but  grannie  the  happiest  of  them  all." 

"  Strange  and  beautiful !  "  said  my  father.  "  But,"  he 
added,  after  a  pause,  "  you  must  have  met  with  many 
strange  and  beautiful  things  in  such  a  life  as  yours  ;  for 
it  seems  to  me  that  such  a  life  is  open  to  the  entrance 
of  all  simple  wonders.  Conventionality  and  routine  and 
arbitrary  law  banish  tlieir  very  approach." 

"I  believe,"  said  Miss  Clare,  "that  every  life  has  its 
own  private  experience  of  the  strange  and  beautiful. 
But  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  perhaps  God  took 


160  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGUTER. 

pains  to  bar  out  such  things  of  the  sort  as  we  should 
be  no  better  for.  The  reason  why  Lazarus  was  not  al- 
lowed to  visit  the  brothers  of  Dives  was,  tliat  the  re- 
pentance he  would  have  urged  would  not  have  followed, 
and  they  would  have  been  only  the  worse  in  conse- 
quence." 

"  Admirably  said,"  remarked  my  father. 

Before  we  took  our  leave,  I  had  engaged  Miss  Clare  to 
dine  with  us  while  my  father  was  in  town. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

LADY  BERNARD. 

When  she  came  we  had  no  other  guest,  and  so  had 
plenty  of  talk  with  her.  Before  dinner  I  showed  her  my 
husband's  pictures  ;  and  she  was  especially  pleased  with 
that  which  hung  in  the  little  room  off  the  study,  which 
I  called  my  boudoir,  —  a  very  ugly  word,  hy  the  way, 
which  I  am  trjn'ng  to  give  up,  — with  a  curtain  before  it. 
My  father  has  described  it  in  "  The  Seaboard  Parish  : " 
a  pauper  lies  dead,  and  they  are  bringing  in  his  coffin. 
She  said  it  was  no  wonder  it  had  not  been  sold,  notwith- 
standing its  excellence  and  force;  and  asked  if  I  would 
allow  her  to  bring  Lady  Bernard  to  see  it.  After  dinner 
Percivale  had  a  long  talk  with  her,  and  succeeded  in  per- 
suading her  to  sit  to  him  ;  not,  however,  before  I  had 
joined  my  entreaties  with  his,  and  my  father  had  in- 
sisted that  her  face  was  not  her  own,  but  belonged  to 
all  her  kind. 

The  very  next  morning  she  came  with  Lady  Bernard. 
The  latter  said  she  knew  my  husband  well  by  reputa- 
tion, and  had,  before  our  marriage,  asked  him  to  her 
house^  but  had  not  been  fortunate  enough  to  possess  suffi- 
cieut  attraction.  Percivale  was  much  taken  with  her, 
notwithstanding  a  certain  coldness,  almost  sternness  of 
manner,  which  was  considerably  repellent,  —  but  only 
for  the  lirst  few  moments,  for,  when  her  eyes  lighted  up, 
the  whole  thing  vanished.  She  was  much  pleased  with 
some  of  his  pictures,  criticising  freely,  and  with  eviden.t 
understanding.  The  immediate  result  was,  that  she 
bought  both  the  pauper  picture  and  that  of  the  dying 
knight. 

"  But  I  am  sorry  to  deprive  your  lovely  room  of  such 

14*  161 


163  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

treasures,  Mrs.  Percivale,"  she  said,  with  a  kind 
smile. 

"Of  course  I  shall  miss  them,"  I  returned;  "but  the 
thought  that  you  have  them  will  console  me.  Besides, 
it  is  good  to  have  a  change  ;  and  there  are  only  too  many 
l^nng  in  the  stud}^,  from  which  he  will  let  me  choose  to 
supply  their  place." 

"  Will  you  let  me  come  and  see  which  "ou  have 
chosen?"  she  asked. 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure,"  I  answered. 

"  And  will  you  come  and  see  me  ?  Do  you  think  you 
could  persuade  your  husband  to  bring  3-ou  to  dine  with 
me?" 

I  told  her  I  could  promise  the  one  with  more  than 
pleasure,  and  had  little  doubt  of  being  able  to  do  the 
other,  now  that  my  husband  had  seen  her. 

A  reference  to  my  husband's  dislike  to  fashionable 
society  followed,  and  I  had  occasion  to  mention  his  feel- 
ing about  being  asked  without  me.  Of  the  latter.  Lady 
Bernard  expressed  the  warmest  approval ;  and  of  the 
former,  said  that  it  would  have  no  force  in  respect  of 
her  parties,  for  they  were  not  at  all  fashionable. 

This  was  the  commencement  of  a  friendship  for  which 
we  have  much  cause  to  thank  God.  Nor  did  we  forget 
that  it  came  through  Miss  Clare. 

I  confess  I  felt  glorious  over  my  cousin  Judy;  but  I 
would  bide  ray  time.  Now  that  I  am  wiser,  and  I  hope 
a  little  better,  I  see  that  I  was  rather  spiteful ;  but  I 
thought  then  I  was  only  jealous  for  my  new  and  beautiful 
friend.  Perhaps,  having  wronged  her  myself,  I  was  the 
more  ready  to  take  vengeance  on  her  wrongs  from  the 
hands  of  another ;  which  was  just  the  opposite  feeling 
to  tliat  I  ought  to  have  had. 

In  the  mean  time,  our  intimacy  with  Miss  Clare  grew. 
She  interested  me  in  many  of  her  schemes  for  helping 
the  poor;  some  of  which  wore  for  providing  them  with 
work  in  hard  times,  but  more  for  giving  them  an  interest 
in  life  itself,  without  which,  she  said,  no  one  would  begin 
to  inquire  into  its  relations  and  duties.  One  of  her 
positive  convictions  was,  that  yon  ought  not  to  give  them 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  163 

any  thing  they  ought  to  provide  for  themselves,  such  as 
food  or  clothing  or  shelter.  In  such  circumstances  aa 
rendered  it  impossible  for  them  to  do  so,  the  ought  was 
in  abeyance.  But  she  heartily  approved  of  making 
them  an  occasional  present  of  something  they  could  not 
be  expected  to  procure  for  themselves,  —  flowers,  for  in- 
stance. "  You  would  not  imagine,"  I  have  heard  her 
say,  "how  they  delight  in  flowers.  All  the  finer  in- 
stincts of  their  being  are  drawn  to  the  surface  at  the 
sight  of  them.  I  am  sure  they  prize  and  enjoy  them  far 
more,  not  merely  than  most  people  with  gardens  and 
greenhouses  do,  but  far  more  even  than  they  would  if 
they  were  deprived  of  them.  A  gift  of  that  sort  can 
only  do  them  good.  But  I  would  rather  give  a  work- 
man a  gold  watch  than  a  leg  of  mutton.  By  a  present 
you  mean  a  compliment ;  and  none  feel  more  grateful 
for  such  an  acknowledgment  of  your  human  relation  to 
them,  than  those  who  look  up  to  3'ou  as  their  supe- 
rior." 

Once,  when  she  was  talking  thus,  I  ventured  to  ob- 
ject, for  the  sake  of  hearing  her  further. 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  sometimes  the  most  precious  thing 
you  can  give  a  man  is  just  that  compassion  which  you 
seem  to  think  destroys  the  value  of  a  gift." 

"  When  compassion  itself  is  precious  to  a  man,"  she 
answered,  "it  must  be  because  he  loves  you,  and  be- 
lieves you  love  him.  When  that  is  the  case,  3'ou  may 
give  him  any  thing  you  like,  and  it  will  do  neither  you 
nor  him  harm.  But  the  man  of  independent  feeling, 
except  he  be  thus  ,your  friend,  will  not  unlikely  resent 
your  compassion,  while  the  beggar  will  accept  it  chiefly 
as  a  pledge  for  something  more  to  be  got  from  you;  and 
so  it  will  tend  to  keep  him  in  beggary." 

"'  Would  you  never,  then,  give  monej^,  or  an}'  of  the 
necessaries  of  life,  except  in  extreme,  and,  on  the  part 
of  the  receiver,  unavoidable  necessity  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  would  not,"  she  answered  ;  "  but  in  the  case  where 
a  man  cannot  help  himself,  the  very  suffering  makes  a 
way  for  the  love  which  is  more  than  compassion  to  mani- 
fest itself.     In  every  other  case,  the  true  way  is  to  pro- 


1,64  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

vide  them  with  worlc,  which  is  itself  a  good  thing,  he- 
sides  what  tliey  gain  by  it.  If  a  man'  will  not  work, 
neither  should  he  eat.  It  must  be  work  with  an  object 
in  it,  however:  it  must  not  be  mere  labor,  such  as  dig- 
ging a  hole  and  filling  it  up  again,  of  whiciv  I  have 
heard.  No  man  could  help  resentment  at  being  set  to 
such  work.  You  ought  to  let  him  feel  tliat  he  is  giving 
something  of  value  to  you  for  the  money  you  give  to 
him.  But  I  have  known  a  whole  district  so  corrupted 
and  degraded  by  clerical  alms-giving,  that  one  of  the 
former  recipients  of  it  declared,  as  spokesman  for  the 
rest,  that  threepence  given  was  far  more  acceptable  than 
five  shillings  eai'ned." 

A  good  part  of  the  little  time  I  could  spare  from  ray 
own  family  was  now  spent  with  Miss  Clare  in  her  work, 
tlirough  which  it  was  chiefly  that  we  became  by  degrees 
intimate  witli  Lady  Bernard.  If  ever  there  was  a  wo- 
man who  lived  this  outer  life  for  the  sake  of  others,  it 
was  she.  Her  inner  life  was,  as  it  were,  sufficient  for 
herself,  and  found  its  natural  outward  expression  in 
blessing  others.  She  was  like  a  fountain  of  living  water 
that  could  find  no  vent  but  into  the  lives  of  hrr  fellows. 
She  had  suffered  more  than  falls  to  the  ordinary  lot  of 
women,  in  those  who  were  related  to  her  most  nearly, 
and  for  many  years  had  looked  for  no  personal  blessing 
from  without.  She  said  to  me  once,  that  she  could  not 
think  of  any  thing  that  could  happen  to  herself  to  make 
her  very  happy  now,  except  a  loved  grandson,  who  was 
leading  a  strange,  wild  life,  were  to  turn  out  a  Harry  the 
Fifth,  —  a  consummation  which,  however  devoutly 
wished,  was  not  granted  her;  for  the  young  man  died 
shortly  after.  I  believe  no  one,  not  even  Miss  Clare, 
knew  half  the  munificent  things  she  did,  or  what  an 
immense  proportion  of  her  large  income  she  spent  upon 
other  people.  But,  as  she  said  herself,  no  one  understood 
tl)e  worth  of  money  better;  and  no  one  liked  better  to 
have  the  worth  of  it :  therefore  she  always  administered 
her  charity  with' some  view  to  the  value  of  the  probable 
return,  —  with  some  regard,  that  is,  to  the  amount  of 
good  likely  to  result  to  others  from  the  aid  given  to  one. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  105 

She  always  took  into  consideration  whether  the  good 
was  likely  to  be  propagated,  or  to  die  with  the  receiver. 
She  confessed  to  frequent  mistakes  ;  but  such,  she  said, 
was  the  principle  upon  which  she  sought  to  regulate  that 
part  of  her  stewardship. 

I  wish  I  could  give  a  photograph  of  her.  She  was 
slight,  and  appeared  taller  than  she  was,  being  rather 
stately  than  graceful,  with  a  commanding  forehead  and 
still  blue  eyes.  She  gave  at  first  the  impression  of  cold- 
ness, with  a  touch  of  haughtiness.  But  this  was,  I 
think,  chiefly  the  result  of  her  inherited  physique ;  for 
the  moment  her  individuality  appeared,  when  her  being, 
that  is,  came  into  contact  with  that  of  another,  all  this 
impression  vanished  in  the  light  that  flashed  into  her 
eyes,  and  the  smile  that  illumined  her  face.  Never  did 
woman  of  rank  step  more  triumphantly  over  the  barriers 
which  the  cumulated  custom  of  ages  has  built  between 
the  classes  of  society.  She  laid  great  stress  on  good 
manners,  little  on  what  is  called  good  birth  ;  although 
to  the  latter,  in  its  deep  and  true  sense,  she  attributed 
the  greatest  a  j^f'iori  value,  as  the  ground  of  obligation 
in  the  possessor,  and  of  expectation  on  the  part  of 
others.  But  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  showing 
more  of  what  she  thought  on  this  subject  presently  ;  for 
I  bethink  me  that  it  occupied  a  great  part  of  our  con- 
versation at  a  certain  little  gathering,  of  which  I  am  now 
going  to  give  an  account. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

MT   SECOND   DINNER-PARTY. 

For  I  judged  that  I  might  now  give  another  little  din- 
ner: I  thought,  that,  as  Percivale  had  been  doing  so 
well  lately,  he  miglit  aftbrd,  with  his  knowing  brother's 
help,  to  provide,  for  his  part  of  the  entertainment,  what 
might  be  good  enougli  to  ofter  even  to  Mr.  Morley ;  and 
I  now  knew  Lady  Bernard  sufficiently  well  to  know  also 
that  slie  would  willingly  accept  an  invitation  from  me, 
and  would  be  pleased  to  meet  Miss  Clare,  or,  indeed, 
would  more  likely  bring  her  with  her. 

I  i^roposed  the  dinner,  and  Percivale  consented  to  it. 
My  main  object  being  the  glorification  of  Miss  Clare, 
who  had  more  engagements  of  one  kind  and  another 
than  anj'body  I  knew,  I  first  invited  her,  asking  her  to 
fix  her  own  day,  at  some  considerable  remove.  Next  I 
invited  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morley,  and  next  Lady  Bernard, 
who  went  out  very  little.  Then  I  invited  Mr.  Black- 
stone,  and  last  of  all  Roger  —  though  I  was  almost  as 
much  interested  in  his  meeting  Miss  Clare  as  in  any  thing 
else  connected  with  the  gathering.  For  he  had  been  ab- 
sent from  London  for  some  time  on  a  visit  to  an  artist 
friend  at  the  Hague,  and  had  never  seen  Miss  Clare 
since  the  evening  on  which  he  and  I  quarrelled  —  or 
rather,  to  be  honest,  I  quarrelled  with  him.  All  ac- 
cepted, and  I  looked  forward  to  the  day  with  some 
triumph. 

I  had  better  calm  the  dread  of  my  wifely  reader  by' 
at  once  assuring  her  that  I  shall  not  harrow  her  feelings 
with  any  account  of  culinary  blunders.  The  moon  was 
in  the  beginning  of  her  second  quarter,  and  my  cook's 
brain  tolerably  undisturbed.     Lady  Bernard  offered  me 

166 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  167 

her  cook  for  the  occasion  ;  but  I  convinced  her  that  my 
wisdom  would  be  to  decline  the  offer,  seeing  such  ex- 
ternal influence  would  probably  tend  to  disintegration. 
I  went  over  with  her  every  item  of  every  dish  and  every 
sauce  many  times,  —  without  any  resulting  sense  of  se- 
curity, I  confess ;  but  I  had  found,  that,  odd  as  it  may 
seem,  she  always  did  better  the  more  she  had  to  do.  I 
believe  that  her  love  of  approbation,  excited  bj'-  the  diffi- 
culty before  her,  in  its  turn  excited  her  intellect,  which 
then  arose  to  meet  the  necessities  of  the  case. 

Roger  arrived  first,  then  Mr.  Blackstone ;  Lady  Ber- 
nard brought  Miss  Clare;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morley 
came  last.  There  were  several  introductions  to  be  gone 
through.  — a  ceremony  in  which  Percivale,  being  awk- 
ward, would  give  me  no  assistance ;  whence  I  failed  to 
observe  how  the  presence  of  Miss  Clare  affected  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Morley  ;  but  my  husband  told  me  that  Judy  turned 
red,  and  that  Mr.  Morley  bowed  to  her  with  studied 
politeness.  I  took  care  that  Mr.  Blackstone  should  take 
her  down  to  dinner,  which  was  served  in  the  studj'-  as 
before. 

The  conversation  was  broken  and  desultory  at  first,  as 
is  generally  the  case  at  a  dinner-party  —  and  perhaps 
ought  to  be;  but  one  after  another  began  to  listen  to 
what  was  passing  between  Lady  Bernard  and  my  hus- 
band at  the  foot  of  the  table,  until  by  degrees  every  one 
became  interested,  and  took  a  greater  or  less  part  in  the 
discussion.     The  first  of  it  I  heard  was  as  next  follows. 

"  Then  you  do  believe,"  my  husband  was  saying,  "  in 
the  importance  of  what  some  of  the  Devonshire  people 
call  havage?" 

"  Allow  me  to  ask  what  they  mean  by  the  word," 
"Lady  Bernard  returned. 

"  Birth,  descent,  —  the  people  you  come  of,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Of  course  I  believe  that  descent  involves  very  im- 
portant considerations." 

"No  one,"  interposed  Mr.  Morley,  "can  have  a  better 
right  than  your  ladyship  to  believe  that." 

"  One  cannot  have  a  better  right  than  another  to  be- 


168  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

lieve  a  fact,  Mr.  Morley/'  she  answered  with  a  smile. 
"  It  is  but  a  fact  that  you  start  better  or  worse  according 
to  the  position  of  your  starting-point." 

"  Undeniably,"  said  Mr  Morley.  "And  for  all  that 
is  feared  from  the  growth  of  levelling  notions  in  this 
country,  it  will  be  many  generations  before  a  profound 
respect  for  birth  is  eradicated  from  the  feelings  of  the 
English  people." 

He  di-ew  in  his  chin  with  a  jerk,  and  devoted  him- 
self again  to  his  plate,  with  the  air  of  a  "  Dixi."  He  was 
Dot  permitted  to  eat  in  peace,  however. 

"  If  you  allow,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  "  that  the  feel- 
ing can  wear  out,  and  is  wearing  out,  it  matters  little 
how  long  it  may  take  to  prove  itself  of  a  false,  because 
corruptible  nature.  No  growth  of  notions  will  blot  love, 
honesty,  kindness,  out  of  the  human  heart." 

"  Then,"  said  Lady  Bernard  archly,  "  am  I  to  under- 
stand, Mr.  Blackstone,  that  3'ou  don't  believe  it  of  the 
least  importance  to  come  of  decent  people?" 

"  Your  ladyship  puts  it  well,"  said  Mr.  Morley,  laugh- 
ing mildly,  "  and  with  authority.  The  longer  the  de- 
scent "  — 

"  The  more  doubtful,"  interrupted  Lady  Bernard, 
laughing.  "  One  can  hardly  have  come  of  decent  people 
all  through,  3'ou  know.  Let  us  only  hope,  without  in- 
quiring too  closely,  that  their  number  preponderates  in 
our  own  individual  cases." 

Mr.  Morley  stared  for  a  moment,  and  then  tried  to 
laugh,  but  unable  to  determine  whereabout  he  was  in 
respect  of  the  qviestion,  betook  himself  to  his  glass  of 
sherry. 

Mr.  Blackstone  considered  it  the  best  policy  in  general 
not  to  explain  any  remark  he  had  made,  but  to  say  the 
right  thing  better  next  time  instead.  I  suppose  he  be- 
lieved, with  anotlier  friend  of  mine,  that  "  when  expla- 
nations become  necessary,  tliey  become  impossible,"  a 
paradox  well  worth  the  consideration  of  those  who  write 
.etters  to  newspapers.  But  Lady  Bernard  understood 
him  well  enough,  and  was  only  unwinding  the  clew  of 
her  idea. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  169 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  mast  be  a  most  serious  fact,"  he 
rejoined,  "to  any  one  who  like  myself  believes  tliat  the 
sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited  on  the  children." 

"Mr.  Blackstone,"  objected  Roger,  "  I  can't  imagine 
you  believing  such  a  manifest  injustice." 

"  It  has  been  believed  in  all  ages  by  the  best  of  peo- 
ple," he  returned. 

"  To  whom  possibly  the  hijustice  of  it  never  suggested 
itself.  For  my  part,  I  must  either  disbelieve  that,  or 
disbelieve  in  a  God." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  you  see  it  is  a  fact  ? 
Don't  you  see  children  born  with  the  sins  of  their  par- 
ents nestling  in  their  very  bodies  ?  You  see  on  which 
horn  of  your  own  dilemma  you  would  impale  yourself." 

"  Wouldn't  you  rather  not  believe  in  a  God  than  be- 
lieve in  an  unjust  one  ?  " 

"  An  unjust  god,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  with  the  hon- 
est evasion  of  one  who  will  not  answer  an  awful  question 
hastily,  "  must  be  a  false  god,  that  is,  no  god.  There- 
fore I  presume  there  is  some  higher  truth  involved  in 
every  fact  that  appears  unjust,  the  perception  of  which 
would  nullify  the  appearance." 

"  I  see  none  in  the  present  case,"  said  Roger. 

"  I  will  go  farther  than  assert  the  mere  opposite,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Blackstone.  "  I  will  assert  that  it  is  an 
honor  to  us  to  have  the  sins  of  our  fathers  laid  upon 
us.  For  thus  it  is  given  into  our  power  to  put  a  stop  to 
them,  so  that  they  shall  descend  no  farther.  If  I 
thought  my  father  had  committed  any  sins  for  which  I 
might  suffer,  I  should  be  unspeakably  glad  to  suffer  for 
them,  and  so  have  the  privilege  of  taking  a  share  in  his 
burden,  and  some  of  the  weight  of  it  off  his  mind.  You 
see  the  whole  idea  is  that  of  a  family,  in  which  we  are  so 
grandly  bound  together,  tliat  we  must  suffer  with  and  for 
each  other.  Destroy  this  consequence,  and  you  destroy 
the  lovely  idea  itself,  with  all  its  thousand  fold  results  of 
loveliness." 

"  You  anticipate  what  I  was  going  to  say,  Mr.  Black- 
stone, "  said  Lady  Bernard.  "  I  would  differ  from  you 
!>nly  in  one  thing.     The  chain  of  descent  is  linked  after 

16 


170  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

sucli  a  complicated  pattern,  that  thenon-conductiug  con- 
dition of  one  link,  or  of  many  links  even,  cannot  break 
the  transmission  of  qualities.  I  may  inherit  from  my 
great-great-grandfather  or  mother,  or  some  one  ever  so 
much  farther  Lack.  That  which  was  active  wrong  in 
someone  or  other  of  my  ancestors,  may  appear  in  me  as 
an  impulse  to  that  same  wrong,  which  of  course  I  have 
to  overcome  ;  and  if  I  succeed,  then  it  is  so  far  checked. 
But  it  may  have  passed,  or  may  yet  pass,  to  others  of 
his  descendants,  who  have,  or  will  have,  to  do  the  same 
' —  for  who  knows  how  many  generations  to  come  ?  — 
before  it  shall  cease.  Married  people,  you  see,  Mrs.  Per- 
civale,  have  an  awful  responsibility  in  regard  of  the  fu- 
ture of  the  world.  You  cannot  tell  to  how  many  mil- 
lions you  may  transmit  your  failures  or  your  victories." 

"  If  I  understand  you  right.  Lady  Bernard,"  said 
Roger,  "it  is  the  personal  character  of  your  ancestors, 
and  not  their  social  position,  you  regard  as  of  impor- 
tance." 

"It  was  of  their  personal  character  alone  I  was  think- 
ing. But  of  course  I  do  not  pretend  to  believe  that 
there  are  not  many  valuable  gifts  more  likely  to  show 
themselves  in  what  is  called  a  long  descent ;  for  doubt- 
less a  continuity  of  education  does  much  to  develop  the 
race." 

"But  if  it  is  personal  character  you  chiefly  regard,  we 
may  say  we  are  all  equally  far  descended,"  1  remarked  ; 
"  for  we  have  each  had  about  the  same  number  of  an- 
cestors with  a  character  of  some  sort  or  other,  whose 
faults  and  virtues  have  to  do  with  ours,  and  for  both  of 
which  we  are,  according  to  Mr.  Blackstone,  in  a  most 
real  and  important  sense  accountable." 

"  Certainly,"  returned  Lady  Bernard ;  "  and  it  is  im- 
possible to  say  in  whose  descent  the  good  or  the  bad  may 
predominate.  I  cannot  tell,  for  instance,  how  much  of 
the  proi)erty  I  inherit  has  been  honestly  come  by,  or  is 
the  spoil  of  rapacity  and  injustice." 

"You  are  doing  the  best  you  can  to  atone  for  such  a 
possible  fact,  then,  by  its  redistribution,"  said  my  hus- 
band. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  171 

"I  confess,"  she  answered,  "the  doubt  has  had  some 
share  in  determining  my  feeling  with  regard  to  the  man- 
agement of  my  property.  I  have  no  right  to  throw  up 
n^y  stewardship,  for  that  was  none  of  my  seeking,  and  I 
do  not  know  any  one  who  has  a  better  claim  to  it ;  but 
I  count  it  only  a  stewardship.  I  am  not  at  liberty  to 
throw  my  orchard  open,  for  that  would  result  not  only  in 
its  destruction,  but  in  a  renewal  of  the  fight  of  centuries 
ago  for  its  possession  ;  but  I  will  try  to  distribute  my 
apples  properly.  That  is,  I  have  not  the  same  right  to 
give  away  foolishly  that  I  have  to  keep  wisely." 

"  Then,"  resumed  Roger,  who  had  evidently  been 
pondering  what  Lady  Bernard  had  previously  said,  "  you 
would  consider  what  is  called  kleptomania  as  the  impulse 
to  steal  transmitted  by  a  thief-ancestor  ?  " 

"ISlothing  seems  to  me  more  likely.  I  know  a  noble- 
man whose  servant  has  to  search  his  pockets  for  spoons 
or  forks  every  night  as  soon  as  he  is  in  bed." 

"  I  should  find  it  very  hard  to  define  the  difference 
between  that  and  stealing,"  said  Miss  Clare,  now  first 
taking  a  part  in  the  conversation.  "I  have  sometimes 
wondered  whether  kleptomania  was  not  merely  the  fash- 
ionable name  for  stealing." 

"The  distinction  is  a  difficult  one,  and  no  doubt  the 
word  is  occasionally  misapplied.  But  I  think  there  is  a 
diff"erence.  The  nobleman  to  whom  I  referred  makes  no 
objection  to  being  thus  deprived  of  his  booty  ;  which,  for 
one  thing,  appears  to  show  that  the  temptation  is  inter- 
mittent, and  partakes  at  least  of  the  character  of  a  disease." 

"  But  are  there  not  diseases  which  are  only  so  much 
the  worse  diseases  that  they  are  not  intermittent  ?  "  said 
Miss  Clare.  "  Is  it  not  hard  that  the  privileges  of  klep- 
tomania should  be  confined  to  the  rich  ?  You  never 
hear  the  word  applied  to  a  poor  child,  even  if  his  father 
was,  habit  and  repute,  a  thief.  Surely,  when  hunger 
and  cold  aggravate  the  attacks  of  inherited  temptation, 
they  cannot  at  the  same  time  aggravate  the  culpability 
of  yielding  to  them  ?  " 

"  Ou  the  contrary,"  said  Roger,  "  one  would  naturally 
suppose  they  added  immeasurable  excuse." 


172  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"Only,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone,  "there  comes  in  oar 
ignorance,  and  consequent  inability  to  judge.  The  very 
fact  of  the  presence  of  motives  of  a  most  powerful  kind 
renders  it  impossible  to  be  certain  of  the  presence  of  the 
disease  ;  whereas  other  motives  being  apparently  ab- 
sent, we  presume  disease  as  the  readiest  way  of  account- 
ing for  the  propensity ;  I  do  not  therefore  think  it  is 
the  only  way.  I  believe  there  are  cases  in  which  it 
comes  of  pure  greed,  and  is  of  the  same  kind  as  any  other 
injustice  the  capability  of  exercising  which  is  more  gen- 
erally distributed.  Why  should  a  thief  be  vmknovvn  in 
a  class,  a  proportion  of  the  members  of  which  is  capable 
of  wrong,  chicanery,  oppression,  indeed  any  form  of  ab- 
solute selfishness?" 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Lady  Bernard,  "  so  long  as  we 
do  our  best  to  help  them  to  grow  better,  we  cannot 
make  too  much  allowance  for  such  as  have  not  only  been 
born  with  evil  impulses,  but  have  had  every  animal  ne- 
cessity to  urge  them  in  the  same  direction  ;  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  they  have  not  had  one  of  those  restrain- 
ing influences  which  a  good  home  and  education  would 
have  afforded.  Such  must,  so  far  as  development  goes, 
be  but  a  little  above  the  beasts." 

"  You  open  a  very  difficult  question,"  said  Mr.  Mor- 
ley:  "What  are  we  to  do  with  them?  Supposing 
they  are  wild  beasts,  we  can't  shoot  them ;  though  that 
would,  no  doubt,  be  the  readiest  way  to  put  an  end  to 
the  breed." 

"  Even  that  would  not  suffice,"  said  Lady  Bernard. 
"There  would  always  be  a  deposit  from  the  higher 
classes  sufficient  to  keep  up  the  breed.  But,  Mr.  Morley, 
I  did  not  say  wild  beasts  :  I  only  said  beasts.  There  is 
a  groat  difference  between  a  tiger  and  a  sheep-dog." 

"  There  is  nearly  as  much  between  a  Seveu-Dials- 
rough  and  a  sheep-dog."  ^' 

"  In  moral  attainment,  I  grant  you,"  said  Mr.  Black- 
stone  ;  "  but  in  moral  capacity,  no.  Besides,  you  must 
remember,  both  what  a  descent  the  slieep-dog  has,  and 
what  pains  have  been  taken  with  his  individual  educa- 
tion, as  well  as  that  of  his  ancestors." 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  173 

"  Granted  all  that,"  said  Mr.  Morley,  ''  there  the  fact 
remains.  For  my  part,  I  confess  I  don't  see  what  is  to 
be  done.  The  class  to  which  j'ou  refer  goes  on  increas- 
ing. There's  this  garrotting  now.  I  spent  a  winter 
at  Algiers  lately,  and  found  even  the  suburbs  of  that 
city  immeasurably  safer  than  any  part  of  London  is 
now,  to  judge  from  the  police-reports.  Yet  I  am  accused 
of  inhumanity  and  selfishness  if  I  decline  to  write  a 
check  for  every  shabby  fellow  who  calls  upon  me  pre- 
tendiiig  to  be  a  clergyman,  and  to  represent  this  or  that 
charity  in  the  East  End  !  " 

"Things  are  bad  enough  in  the  West  End,  within  a 
few  hundred  j'ards  of  Portland  Place,  for  instance,"  mur- 
mured Miss  Clare. 

"  It  seems  to  me  highly  unreasonable,"  Mr.  Morley 
went  on.  "  Why  should  I  spend  my  money  to  perpetu- 
ate such  a  condition  of  things  ?  " 

"  That  would  in  all  likelihood  be  the  tendency  of  your 
subscription,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone, 

"  Then  why  should  I  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Morley  with  a 
smile  of  triumph. 

"  But,"  said  Miss  Clare,  in  an  apologetic  tone,  '•'  it 
seems  to  me  you  make  a  mistake  in  regarding  the  poor 
as  if  their  poverty  were  the  onlj'  distinction  by  which 
they  could  be  classified.  The  poor  are  not  all  thieves 
and  garroters,  nor  even  all  unthankful  and  unholj'. 
There  are  just  as  strong  and  as  delicate  distinctions  too, 
in  that  stratum  of  social  existence  as  in  the  upper  strata 
I  should  imagine  Mr.  Morley  knows  a  few,  belonging  to 
the  same  social  grade  with  himself,  with  whom,  however, 
he  would  be  sorry  to  be  on  any  terms  of  intimacy." 

"  Not  a  few,"  responded  Mr.  Morley  with  a  righteous 
frown. 

"  Then  I,  who  know  the  poor  as  well  at  least  as  you  can 
know  th?  rich,  paving  lived  amongst  them  almost  from 
childhood,  assert  that  I  am  acquainted  with  not  a  few, 
who,  in  all  the  essentials  of  human  life  and  character, 
would  be  an  honor  to  any  circle." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  seem  to  imply  that  there  may 
not  be  very  worthy  people  amongst  them,  Miss  Clare  ; 
15* 


174  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGnTER. 

l)nt  it  is  not  such  who  draw  our  attention  to  the 
class." 

"  Not  such  who  force  themselves  upon  j-our  attention 
certainly,"  said  Miss  Clare  ;  "  but  the  existence  of  such 
may  be  an  additional  reason  for  bestowing  some  atten- 
tion on  the  class  to  which  they  belong.  Is  tliere  not 
such  a  m'ghty  fact  as  the  body  of  Christ  ?  Is  there  no 
connection  between  the  head  and  the  feet  ?  " 

"  I  had  not  the  slightest  purpose  of  disputing  the 
matter  with  you,  Miss  Clare,"  said  Mr.  Morley  —  I 
thought  rudely,  for  who  would  use  the  word  disputing  at 
a  dinner-table  ?  "  On  the  contrary,  being  a  practical 
man,  I  want  to  know  what  is  to  be  done.  It  is  doubtless 
a  great  misfortune  to  the  community  that  there  should 
be  such  sinks  in  our  cities  ;  but  who  is  to  blame  for  it  ? 
—  that  is  the  question." 

"  Every  man  who  says,  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper  ? 
Why,  just  consider,  Mr.  Morley  :  suppose  in  a  familj^ 
there  were  one  less  gifted  than  the  others,  and  that  in 
consequence  they  all  withdrew  from  him,  and  took  no 
interest  in  his  affairs :  what  would  become  of  him  ? 
Must  he  not  sink  ?  " 

"Difference  of  rank  is  a  divine  appointment, — you 
must  allow  that.  If  there  were  not  a  variety  of  grades, 
the  social  machine  would  soon  come  to  a  stand- 
still." 

"  A  strong  argument  for  taking  care  of  the  smallest 
wheel,  for  all  the  parts  are  interdependent.  That  there 
should  be  different  classes  is  undoubtedly  a  divine  inten- 
tion, and  not  to  be  turned  aside.  But  suppose  the  less- 
gifted  boy  is  fit  for  some  manual  labor;  suppose  he  takes 
to  carpentering,  and  works  well,  and  keeps  the  house 
tidy,  and  every  thing  in  good  repair,  while  his  brothers 
pursue  their  studies  and  prepare  for  professions  beyond 
his  reach  :  is  the  inferior  boy  degraded  by  doing  the  best 
he  can  ?  Is  there  any  reason  in  the  nature  of  things 
why  he  should  sink  ?  But  he  will  most  likely  sink, 
sooner  or  later^  if  his  brothers  take  no  interest  in  his 
work,  and  treat  him  as  a  being  of  nature  inferior  to  their 
own." 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  175 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Morley,  "but  is  lie 
not  on  tbe  very  supposition  inferior  to  them  ?  " 

''Intellectually,  yes  ;  morally,  no  ;  for  he  is  doing  his 
work,  possibly  better  than  they,  and  therefore  taking  a 
higher  place  in  the  eternal  scale.  But  granting  all 
kinds  of  inferiority,  his  nature  remains  the  same  with 
their  own  ;  and  the  question  is,  whether  they  treat  him 
as  one  to  be  helped  up,  or  one  to  be  kept  down ;  as  one 
unworthy  of  sympathy,  or  one  to  be  honored  for  filling 
his  part:  in  a  word,  as  one  belonging  to  them,  or  one 
whom  they  put  up  with  only  because  his  work  is  neces- 
sary to  them." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  being  'helped  up  '  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Morley. 

"  I  do  not  mean  helped  out  of  his  trade,  but  helped  to 
make  the  best  of  it,  and  of  the  intellect  that  finds  its 
development  in  that  way." 

"  Very  good.  But  yet  I  don't  see  how  you  apply  your 
supposition." 

"  For  an  instance  of  application,  then :  How  many 
respectable  people  know  or  care  a  jot  about  their  ser- 
vants, except  as  creatures  necessary  to  their  comfort  ?  " 

"  Well,  Miss  Clare,"  said  Judy,  addressing  her  for  the 
first  time,  "if  you  had  had  the  half  to  do  with  servants 
I  have  had,  you  would  alter  your  opinion  of  them." 

"  I  have  expressed  no  opinion,"  returned  Miss  Clare. 
"  I  have  only  said  that  masters  and  mistresses  know  and 
care  next  to  nothing  about  them." 

"  They  are  a  very  ungrateful  class,  do  what  you  will 
for  them." 

"  I  am  afraid  they  are  at  present  growing  more  and 
more  corrupt  as  a  class,"  rejoined  Miss  Clare ;  "  but 
gratitude  is  a  high  virtue,  therefore  in  any  case  I  don't 
see  how  you  could  look  for  much  of  it  from  the  com- 
mon sort  of  them.  And  yet  while  some  mistinesses  do 
not  get  so  much  of  it  as  they  deserve,  I  fear  most  mis- 
tresses expect  far  more  of  it  than  they  have  any  right 
to." 

"  You  can't  get  them  to  speak  the  truth." 

"  That  I  am  afraid  is  a  fact." 


176  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"I  have  never  known  one  on  whose  word  I  could  de- 
pend," insisted  Judy. 

"  My  father  says  he  has  known  one,"  I  interjected. 

"  A  sad  confirmation  of  Mrs.  Morley,"  said  Miss  Clare. 
"But  for  my  part  I  know  very  few  persons  in  any  rank 
on  whose  representation  of  things  I  could  absolutely  de- 
pend. Truth  is  the  highest  virtue,  and  seldom  grows 
wild.  It  is  difficult  to  speak  the  truth,  and  those  who 
have  tried  it  longest  best  know  how  difficult  it  is.  Ser- 
vants need  to  be  taught  that  as  well  as  everybody  else." 

"  There  is  nothing  they  resent  so  much  as  being 
taught,"  said  Judy. 

"  Perhaps  :  they  are  very  far  from  docile  ;  and  I  be- 
lieve it  is  of  little  use  to  attempt  giving  them  direct  les- 
sons." 

'•  How,  then,  are  you  to  teach  them  ?  " 

"  By  making  it  very  plain  to  them,  but  without  calling 
their  attention  to  it,  that  you  speak  the  truth.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  years  they  may  come  to  tell  a  lie  or  two 
the  less  for  that." 

"  Not  a  very  hopeful  prospect,"  said  Judy. 

"  Not  a  very  rapid  improvement,"  said  her  husband. 

"  I  look  for  no  rapid  improvement,  so  early  in  a  his- 
tory as  the  supposition  implies,"  said  Miss  Clare. 

"But  would  you  not  tell  them  liow  wicked  it  is  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  They  know  already  that  it  is  wicked  to  tell  lies  ;  but 
they  do  not  feel  that  they  are  wicked  in  making  the  as- 
sertions they  do.  The  less  said  about  the  abstract  truth, 
and  the  more  shown  of  practical  truth,  the  better  for 
those  whom  any  one  would  teach  to  forsake  lying.  So, 
at  least,  it  appears  to  me.  I  despair  of  teaching  others, 
except  by  learning  myself" 

"If  you  do  no  more  than  that,  j'ou  will  hardly  pro- 
duce an  appreciable  effect  in  a  lifetime." 

"  Why  should  it  be  appreciated  ?  "  rejoined  Miss  Clare. 

"  I  should  have  said,  on  the  contrary,"  interposed 
Mr.  Blackstone,  addressing  Mr.  Morley,  "  if  you  do  less 
—  for  more  you  cannot  do  —  you  will  produce  no  effect 
whatever." 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  K7 

"  We  have  no  right  to  make  it  a  condition  of  our 
obedience,  that  we  shall  see  its  reflex  in  the  obedience 
of  others,"  said  Miss  Clare.  "  We  have  to  pull  out  the 
beam,  not  the  mote." 

"Are  you  not,  thwi,  to  pull  the  mote  out  of  your 
brother's  eye  ?  "  said  Judy. 

"  In  no  case  and  on  no  pretence,  until  you  have 
pulled  the  beam  out  of  your  own  eye,"  said  Mr.  Black- 
stone ;  "which  I  fancy  will  make  the  duty  of  finding 
fault  with  one's  neighbor  a  rare  one ;  for  who  will  ven- 
ture to  say  he  has  qualified  himself  for  the  task?" 

It  was  no  wonder  that  a  silence  followed  upon  this ; 
for  the  talk  had  got  to  be  very  serious  for  a  dinner-table. 
Lady  Bernard  was  the  first  to  speak.  It  was  easier  to 
take  up  the  dropped  thread  of  the  conversation  than  to 
begin  a  new  reel. 

"  It  cannot  be  denied,"  she  said,  "  whoever  may  be  to 
blame  for  it,  that  the  separation  between  the  rich  and  the 
poor  has  either  been  greatly  widened  of  late,  or,  which 
involves  the  same  practical  necessit}',  we  have  become 
more  aware  of  the  breadth  and  depth  of  a  gulf  which, 
however  it  may  distinguish  their  circumstances,  ought 
not  to  divide  them  from  each  other.  Certainly  the  rich 
withdraw  themselves  from  the  poor.  Instead,  for  in- 
stance, of  helping  them  to  bear  their  burdens,  they  leave 
the  still  struggling  poor  of  whole  parishes  to  sink  into 
hopeless  want,  under  the  weight  of  those  who  have 
already  sunk  beyond  recovery.  I  am  not  sure  that  to 
shoot  them  would  not  involve  less  injustice.  At  all 
events,  he  that  hates  his  brother  is  a  murderer." 

"  But  there  is  no  question  of  hating  here,"  objected 
Mr.  Morley. 

"I  am  not  certain  that  absolute  indifference  to  one's 
neighbor  is  not  as  bad.  It  came  pretty  nearly  to  the 
same  thing  in  the  case  of  the  priest  and  the  Levite,  who 
passed  by  on  the  other  side,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone. 

"  Still,"  said  Mr.  Morley,  in  all  the  self-importance  of 
one  who  prided  himself  on  the  practical,  "I  do  not  see 
that  Miss  Clare  has  proposed  any  remedy  for  the  state 
of  things  concerning  the  evil  of  which  we  are  all  agreed. 


178  THE    VICAR'S  DAUVnTER. 

Wlifit  is  to  be  done  ?  Wliat  can  /  do  now  ?  Come, 
Miss  Clare." 

Miss  Clare  was  silent. 

"Marion,  my  child,"  said  Ladv  Bernard,  turning  to 
her,  "  will  you  answer  Mr.  Morlewr  " 

"  Not,  certainly,  as  to  what  he\an  do :  that  question 
I  dare  not  undertake  to  answer,  I  can  only  speak  of 
what  principles  I  may  seem  to  have  discovered.  But 
until  a  man  begins  to  behave  to  those  with  whom  he 
comes  into  personal  contact  as  partakers  of  the  same 
nature,  to  recognize,  for  instance,  between  himself  and 
his  trades-people  a  bond  superior  to  that  of  supply  and 
demand,  I  cannot  imagine  how  he  is  to  do  any  thing 
towards  the  drawing  together  of  the  edges  of  the  gaping 
wound  in  the  social  body." 

"But,"  persisted  Mr.  Morley,  who,  I  began  to  thiiik, 
showed  some  real  desire  to  come  at  a  practical  conclu- 
sion, "  suppose  a  man  finds  himself  incapable  of  that 
sort  of  thing  —  for  it  seems  to  me  to  want  some  rare 
qualification  or  other  to  be  able  to  converse  with  an  un- 
educated person  "  — 

"There  are  many  such,  especially  amongsi,  those  who 
follow  handicrafts,"  interposed  Mr.  Blackstone,  "  who 
think  a  great  deal  more  than  most  of  the  so-called  edu- 
cated. There  is  a  truer  education  to  be  got  in  the  pur- 
suit of  a  handicraft  than  in  the  life  of  a  mere  scholar. 
But  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Morley." . 

"  Suppose,"  resumed  Mr.  Morley,  accepting  the  apology 
without  disclaimer, — ■  "Suppose  I  find  I  can  do  nothing 
of  that  sort;  is  there  nothing  of  any  sort  I  can 
do?" 

"Nothing  of  the  best  sort,  I  firmly  believe,"  answered 
Miss  Claie  ;  "  for  the  genuine  recognition  of  the  human 
relationship  can  alone  give  value  to  whatever  else  you 
may  do.  and  indeed  can  alone  guide  you  to  what  ought 
to  be  done.  I  had  a  rather  painful  illustration  of  this 
the  other  day.  A  gentleman  of  wealth  and  position  of- 
fered me  the  use  of  his  grounds  for  some  of  ui}^  poor 
friends,  whom  I  wanted  to  take  out  for  a  half-holida}'-. 
In  the  neighborhood  of  London,  that  is  a  great  boon. 


THE   n CAR'S  DAUGHTER.  179 

But  unfortunately,  whether  from  his  mistake  or  mine,  I 
was  left  with  the  impression  that  he  would  provide  some 
little  entertainment  for  them ;  I  am  certain  that  at  least 
milk  was  mentioned.  It  was  a  lovely  day ;  every  thing 
looked  beautiful;  and  although  they  were  in  no  great 
spirits,  poor  things,  no  doubt  the  shade  and  the  grass 
and  the  green  trees  wrought  some  good  in  them.  Un- 
happily, two  of  the  men  had  got  drunk  on  the  way  ; 
and,  fearful  of  giving  offence,  I  had  to  take  them  back 
to  the  station,  — for  their  poor  helpless  wives  could  only 
cry,  —  and  send  them  home  by  train.  I  should  have 
done  better  to  risk  the  offence,  and  take  them  into  the 
grounds,  where  they  might  soon  have  slept  it  off  under 
a  tree.  I  had  some  distance  to  go,  and  some  difficulty 
in  getting  them  along ;  and  when  I  got  back  I  found 
things  in  an  unhappy  condition,  for  nothing  had  bceu 
given  them  to  eat  or  drink,  —  indeed,  no  attention  had 
been  paid  them  whatever.  There  was  company  at  din- 
ner in  the  house,  and  I  could  not  find  any  one  with  au- 
thority. I  hurried  into  the  neighboring  village,  and 
bought  the  contents  of  two  bakers'  shops,  with  which  I 
returned  in  time  to  give  each  a  piece  of  bread  before  the 
company  came  out  to  look  at  them.  A  gayly-dressed 
group,  they  stood  by  themselves  languidly  regarding  the 
equally  languid  but  rather  indignant  groups  of  ill-clad 
and  hungry  men  and  women  upon  the  lawn.  They 
made  no  attempt  to  mingle  with  them,  or  arrive  at  a 
notion  of  what  was  moving  in  any  of  their  minds.  The 
nearest  approach  to  communion  I  saw  was  a  poke  or 
two  given  to  a  child  with  the  point  of  a  parasol.  Were 
my  poor  friends  likely  to  return  to  their  dingy  homes 
with  any  great  feeling  of  regard  for  the  givers  of  such 
cold  welcome  ?  " 

"But  that  was  an  exceptional  case,"  said  Mr.  Morley. 

"  Chiefly  in  this,"  returned  Miss  Clare,  "  that  it  was 
a  case  at  all  —  that  they  were  thus  presented  with  a  lit- 
tle more  room  on  the  face  of  the  earth  for  a  few  hours." 

"  But  you  think  the  fresh  air  may  have  done  them 
good?" 

"Yes;  but  we  were   speaking,  I  thought,   of  what 


180  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGUTER. 

might  serve  towards  the  filling  up  of  the  gulf  between 

the  classes." 

"  Well,  will  not  all  kindness  shown  to  the  poor  by 
persons  in  a  superior  station  tend  in  that  direction  ?  " 

"I  maintain  that  you  can  do  nothing  for  them  in  the 
way  of  kindness  that  shall  not  result  in  more  harm  than 
good,  except  you  do  it  from  and  with  genuine  charity  of 
soul;  with  some  of  that  love,  in  short,  which  is  the  heart 
of  religion.  Except  what  is  done  for  them  is  so  done  as 
to  draw  ovit  their  trust  and  affection,  and  so  raise  them 
consciously  in  the  human  scale,  it  can  only  tend  either 
to  hurt  their  feelings  and  generate  indignation,  or  to  en- 
courage fawning  and  beggary.     But  "  — 

"I  am  entirely  of  your  mind,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone. 
"  But  do  go  on." 

"I  was  going  to  add,"  said  Miss  Clare,  "that  while 
no  other  charity  than  this  can  touch  the  sore,  a  good 
deal  might  yet  be  effected  by  bare  justice.  It  seems  to 
me  high  time  that  we  dropped  talking  about  charity, 
and  took  up  the  cry  of  justice.  There,  now,  is  a  ground 
on  which  a  man  of  your  influence,  Mr.  Morley,  might 
do  much." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Miss  Clare.  So  long 
as  I  pay  the  market  value  for  the  labor  I  employ,  I  do 
not  see  how  more  can  be  demanded  of  me  —  as  a  right, 
that  is." 

"  We  will  not  enter  on  that  question,  Marion,  if  you 
please,"  said  Lady  Bernard. 

Miss  Clare  nodded,  and  went  on. 

"  Is  it  just  in  the  nation,"  she  said,  "  to  abandon  those 
who  can  do  nothing  to  help  themselves,  to  be  preyod 
upon  by  bad  landlords,  railway-companies,  and  dishonest 
trades-people  with  their  false  weiglits,  balances,  and 
measures,  and  adulterations  to  boot,  —  from  all  of  whom 
their  more  wealthy  brethren  are  comparatively  safe  ? 
Does  not  a  nation  exist  for  the  protection  of  its  parts  ? 
Have  these  no  claims  on  the  nation  ?  Would  j^ou  call 
it  just  in  a  family  to  abandon  its  less  gifted  to  any  moral 
or  physical  spoiler  who  might  be  bred  within  it  ?  To 
say  a  citizen  must  take  care  of  himself  may  be  just 


/ 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  181 

wliere  he  can  take  care  of  himself,  hut  cannot  he  just 
where  that  is  impossible.  A  thousand  causes,  originat- 
ing mainly  in  the  neglect  of  their  neighbors,  have  com- 
bined to  sink  the  poor  into  a  state  of  moral  paralysis  : 
are  we  to  say  the  paralyzed  may  be  run  over  in  our 
streets  with  impunity  ?  Must  they  take  care  of  them- 
selves ?  Have  we  not  to  awake  them  to  the  very  sense 
that  life  is  worth  caring  for  ?  I  cannot  but  feel  that  the 
bond  between  such  a  neglected  class,  and  any  nation  in 
which  it  is  to  be  found,  is  very  little  stronger  than,  if 
indeed  as  strong  as,  that  between  slaves  and  their  mas- 
ters. Who  could  preach  to  them  their  duty  to  the  na- 
tion, except  on  grounds  which  such  a  nation  acknowl- 
edges only  with  the  lips  ?  " 

"  You  have  to  prove,  Miss  Clare,"  said  Mr.  Morley, 
in  a  tone  that  seemed  intended  to  imply  that  he  was  not 
in  the  least  affected  by  mistimed  eloquence,  "that  the 
relation  is  that  of  a  family." 

"  I  believe,"  she  returned,  "  that  it  is  closer  than  the 
mere  human  relation  of  the  parts  of  any  family.  But, 
at  all  events,  until  we  are  their  friends  it  is  worse  than 
useless  to  pretend  to  be  such,  and  until  they  feel  that  we 
are  their  friends  it  is  worse  than  useless  to  talk  to  thera 
about  God  and  religion.  They  will  none  of  it  from  our 
lips." 

"  Will  they  from  any  lips  ?  Are  they  not  already  too 
far  sunk  towards  the  brutes  to  be  capable  of  receiving 
any  such  rousing  influence  ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Blackstone 
with  a  smile,  evidently  wishing  to  draw  Miss  Clare  out 
yet  further. 

'*■  You  turn  me  aside,  Mr.  Blackstone.  I  wanted  to 
urge  Mr.  Morley  to  go  into  parliament  as  spiritual  mem- 
ber for  the  poor  of  our  large  towns.  Besides,  I  know 
you  don't  think  as  your  question  would  imply.  As  far 
as  my  experience  guides  me,  I  am  bound  to  believe  that 
there  is  a  spot  of  soil  in  every  heart  sufficient  for  the 
growth  of  a  gospel  seed.  And  I  believe,  moreover,  that 
not  only  is  he  a  fellow-worker  with  God  who  sows  that 
seed,  but  that  he  also  is  one  who  opens  a  way  for  that 
seed  to  enter  the  soil.     If  such  preparation  were  not  ne- 

16 


182  THE  VICAR'S  DAUariTER. 

cessary,  tlie  Saviour  would  liave  come  the  moment  Adam 
and  Eve  fell,  and  would  liave  required  no  Baptist  to  pre- 
cede him." 

A  good  deal  followed  which  I  would  gladly  record,  en- 
abled as  I  now  am  to  assist  my  memory  by  a  morn 
thorough  acquaintance  with  the  views  of  Miss  Clare. 
But  I  feai  I  have  already  given  too  much  conversation 
at  ouce. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  EXD  OF  THE  EVENING. 

What  specially  delighted  me  during  tlie  evening, 
was  the  marked  attention,  and  the  serious  look  in  the 
eyes,  with  which  Roger  listeued.  It  was  not  often  that 
he  did  look  serious.  He  preferred,  if  possible,  to  get  a 
joke  out  of  a  thing ;  but  when  he  did  enter  into  an 
argument,  he  was  always  fair.  Although  prone  to  take 
the  side  of  objection  to  any  religious  remark,  he  yet 
never  said  any  thing  against  religion  itself.  But  his 
principles,  and  indeed  his  nature,  seemed  as  yet  in  a 
state  of  solution,  —  uncrystallized,  as  my  father  would 
say.  Mr.  Morley,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed  an  insolu- 
ble mass,  incapable  of  receiving  impressions  from  other 
minds.  Any  suggestion  of  his  own  mind,  as  to  a  course 
of  action  or  a  mode  of  thinking,  had  a  good  chance. of 
being  without  question  regarded  as  reasonable  and 
right :  he  was  more  than  ordinarily  prejudiced  in  his  own 
favor.  The  day  after  they  thus  met  at  our  house,  Misss 
Clare  had  a  letter  from  him,  in  which  he  took  the  high 
hand  with  her,  rebuking  her  solemnly  for  her  presump- 
tion in  saying,  as  he  represented  it,  that  no  good  could 
'  be  done  except  after  the  fashion  she  laid  down,  and  as- 
suring her  that  she  would  thus  alienate  the  most  valuable 
assistance  from  any  scheme  she  might  cherish  for  the 
amelioration  of  the  condition  of  the  lower  classes.  It 
ended  with  the  offer  of  a  yearly  subscription  of  five 
pounds  to  any  project  of  the  wisdom  of  which  she 
would  take  the  trouble  to  convince  him.  She  replied, 
thanking  him  both  for  his  advice  and  his  offer,  but  say- 
ing, that,  as  she  had  no  scheme  on  foot  requiring  such 
assistance,  she  could  not  at  present  accept  the  latter; 

183 


184  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGUrER. 

should,  however,  any  thing  show  itself  for  which  that 
sort  of  help  was  desirable,  she  would  take  the  liberty  of 
reminding  him  of  it. 

When  the  ladies  rose,  Judy  took  me  aside,  and  said,  — 

"  What  does  it  all  mean,  Wynnie  ?  " 

"Just  what  you  hear,"  I  answered. 

"You  asked  us,  to  have  a  triumph  over  me,  you 
naughty  thing ! " 

"  Well  —  partly  —  if  I  am  to  be  honest ;  but  far  more 
to  make  you  do  justice  to  Miss  Clare.  You  being  my 
cousin,  she  had  a  right  to  that  at  my  hands." 

"  Does  Lady  Bernard  know  as  much  about  her  as  she 
seems  ?  " 

"  She  knows  every  thing  about  her,  and  visits  her, 
too,  in  her  very  questionable  abode.  You  see,  Judy,  a 
report  may  be  a  fact,  and  yet  be  untrue." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  be  lectured  by  a  chit  like  you. 
But  I  should  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with  Miss  Clare." 

"  I  will  make  you  an  opportunity." 

I  did  so,  and  could  not  help  overhearing  a  very 
pretty  apology  ;  to  which  Miss  Clare  replied,  that  she 
feared  she  only  was  to  blame,  inasmuch  as  she  ought  to 
have  explained  the  peculiarity  of  her  circumstances  be- 
fore accepting  the  engagement.  At  the  time,  it  had  not 
appeared  to  her  necessary,  she  said ;  but  now  she  would 
make  a  point  of  explaining  before  she  accepted  any 
fresh  duty  of  the  kind,  for  she  saw  it  would  be  fairer  to 
both  parties.  It  was  no  wonder  such  an  answer  should 
entirely  disarm  cousin  Judy,  who  forthwith  begged  she 
would,  if  she  had  no  objection,  resume  her  lessons  with 
the  children  at  the  commencement  of  the  next  quarter. 

"But  I  understand  from  Mrs.  Percivale,"  objected 
Miss  Clare,  "  that  the  office  is  filled  to  your  thorough 
satisfaction." 

"  Yes  ;  the  lady  I  have  is  an  excellent  teacher  ;  but 
the  engagement  was  only  for  a  quarter." 

"  If  you  have  no  other  reason  for  parting  with  her,  I 
could  not  think  of  stepping  into  her  place.  It  would  be 
a  great  disappointment  to  her,  and  my  want  of  openness 
with  you  would  be  the  cause  of  it.     If  you  should  part 


THE   VT CAR'S  DAUCnTER.  185 

with  her  for  any  other  reason,  I  shoxild  be  very  glad  to 
serve  3'ou  again." 

Judy  tried  to  argue  with  her,  but  Miss  Clare  was  im- 
movable. 

"  Will  3"0U  let  me  come  and  see  you,  then  ?  "  said 
Judy. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  she  answered.  "  You  had  bet- 
ter come  with  Mrs.  Percivale,  though,  for  it  would  not 
be  easy  for  3-ou  to  find  the  place." 

We  went  up  to  the  drawing-room  to  tea,  passing 
tlirough  the  study,  and  taking  the  gentlemen  with  ns. 
Miss  Clare  played  to  us,  and  sang  several  songs,  —  the 
last  a  ballad  of  Schiller's,  "  The  Pilgrim,"  setting  forth 
the  constant  striving  of  the  soul  after  something  of  which 
it  never  lays  hold.  The  last  verse  of  it  I  managed  to 
remember.     It  was  this :  — 

"  Thither,  ah  !  no  footpath  bendeth  ; 
Ah  !  the  heaven  above,  so  clear. 
Never,  earth  to  touch,  descendeth  ; 
And  the  There  is  never  Here  !  " 

"  That  is  a  beautiful  song,  and  beautifully  sung,"  said 
Mr.  Blackstone  ;  "  but  I  am  a  little  surprised  at  3"0ur 
choosing  to  sing  it,  for  you  cannot  call  it  a  Christian 
song." 

'•  Don't  you  find  St.  Paul  sa^nng  something  very  like 
it  again  and  again  ?  "  Miss  Clare  returned  with  a  smile, 
as  if  she  perfectly  knew  what  he  objected  to.  "You 
find  him  striving,  journeying,  pressing  on,  reaching  out 
to  lay  hold,  but  never  having  attained,  —  ever  conscious 
of  failure." 

"  That  is  true ;  but  there  is  this  huge  difference,  — • 
that  St.  Paul  expects  to  attain, — is  confident  of  one 
day  attaining ;  while  Schiller,  in  that  lyric  at  least, 
seems  —  I  only  say  seems  —  hopeless  of  any  satisfac- 
tion :  Das  Dort  ist  niemals  H'lerP 

"  It  may  have  been  only  a  mood,"  said  Miss  Clare. 
"  St.  Paul  had  his  moods  also,  from  which  he  had  to 
rouse  himself  to  fresh  faith  and  hope  and  eifort." 

"  But  St.  Paul  writes  only  in  his  hopeful  moods.   Such 

16* 


JSG  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

alone  he  counts  worthy  of  sharing  with  his  fellows.  If 
there  is  no  hope,  why,  upon  any  theorj',  take  the  trouble 
to  say  so  ?  It  is  pure  weakness  to  desire  sympathy  in 
hopelessness.  Hope  alo-ae  justifies  as  well  as  excites 
eitlier  utterance  or  effort." 

"  I  admit  all  you  say,  Mr.  Blackstone ;  and  yet  I 
think  such  a  poem  invaluable  ;  for  is  not  Schiller  therein 
the  mouth  of  tlie  whole  creation  groaning  and  travail- 
ling  and  inarticulately  crying  out  for  the  sonship  ?  " 

"  Unconsciously,  then.  He  does  not  know  what  he 
wants." 

''  Apparently,  not.  Neither  does  the  creation. 
Neither  do  we.  We  do  know  it  is  oneness  with  God  we 
want ;  but  of  what  that  means  we  have  only  vague, 
though  glowing  hints." 

I  saw  Mr.  Morley  scratch  his  left  ear  like  a  young 
calf,  only  more  impatiently. 

"  But,"  Miss  Clare  went  on,  "  is  it  not  invaluable  as 
the  confession  of  one  of  the  noblest  of  spirits,  that  he 
had  found  neither  repose  nor  sense  of  attainment  ?  " 

"  But,"  said  Roger,  "  did  you  ever  know  any  one  of 
those  3'^ou  call  Christians  who  professed  to  have  reached 
satisfaction  ;  or,  if  so,  whose  life  would  justify  you  in 
believing  him  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  known  a  satisfied  Christian,  I  con- 
fess," answered  Miss  Clare.  "  Indeed,  I  should  take 
satisfaction  as  a  poor  voucher  for  Christianity.  But  I 
have  known  several  contented  Christians.  I  might,  in 
respect  of  one  or  two  of  them,  use  a  stronger  word,  — 
certainly  not  satisfied.  I  believe  there  is  a  grand,  essen- 
tial unsatisfaction,  —  I  do  not  mean  dissatisfaction,  — 
which  adds  the  delight  of  expectation  to  the  peace  of 
attainment ;  and  that,  I  presume,  is  the  very  conscious- 
ness of  heaven.  But  where  faith  may  not  have  pro- 
duced even  contentment,  it  will  yet  sustain  hope ; 
which,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  ballad,  no  mere  aspira- 
tion can.  We  must  believe  in  a  living  ideal,  before  we 
can  have  a  tireless  heart ;  an  ideal  which  draws  our 
poor  vague  ideal  to  itself,  to  fill  it  full  and  make  it 
alive." 


pTS  17 1SB.SITY] 


rilE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  187 

I  should  have  been  amazed  to  hear  Miss  Clare  talt 
like  this,  had  I  not  often  heard  my  father  say  that  aspi- 
ration and  obedience  were  the  two  mightiest  forces 
for  development.  Her  own  needs  and  her  own  deeds 
had  been  her  tutors ;  and  the  light  by  w^bich  she  had 
read  their  lessons  was  the  candle  of  the  Lord  within 
her. 

When  my  husband  would  have  put  her  into  Lady 
Bernard's  carriage,  as  they  were  leaving,  she  said  she 
should  prefer  walking  home  ;  and,  as  Lady  Bernard  did 
not  press  her  to  the  contrary,  Percivale  could  not  remon- 
strate. "  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  walk  with  you,  Miss 
Clare,"  he  said.     "  /  must  not  leave  my  duties,  but  "  — 

''  There's  not  the  slightest  occasion,"  she  interrupted. 
"  I  know  every  yard  of  the  way.     Good-night." 

The  carriage  drove  off  in  one  direction,  and  Miss 
Clare  tripped  lightly  along  in  the  other.  Percivale 
darted  into  the  house,  and  told  Eoger,  who  snatched  up 
his  hat,  and  bounded  after  her.  Already  she  was  out  of 
sight;  but  he,  following  light-footed,  overtook  her  in 
the  crescent.  It  was,  however,  only  after  persistent  en- 
treaty that  he  prevailed  on  her  to  allow  him  to  accom- 
pany her. 

"  You  do  not  know,  Mr.  Eoger,"  she  said  pleasantly, 
"what  you  may  be  exposing  yourself  to,  in  going  with 
me.  I  may  have  to  do  something  you  wouldn't  like  to 
have  a  share  in." 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  have  the  humblest  share 
in  any  thing  you  draw  me  into,"  said  Roger. 

As  it  fell  out,  they  had  not  gone  far  before  they  came 
upon  a  little  crowd,  chiefly  of  boys,  who  ought  to  have 
been  in  bed  long  before,  gathered  about  a  man  and 
woman.  The  man  was  forcing  his  company  on  a  woman 
who  was  evidently  annoyed  that  she  could  not  get  rid  of 
him. 

"Is  he  your  husband?"  asked  Miss  Clare,  making 
her  way  through  the  crowd. 

"No,  miss,"  the  woman  answered.  "I  never  saw 
him  afore.     I'm  only  just  come  in  from  the  country." 

She  looked  more  angry  than  frightened.     Koger  said 


188  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

lier  black  eyes  flashed  dangerously,  and  she  felt  about 
the  bosom  of  her  dress  —  for  a  knife,  he  was  certain. 

"You  leave  her  alone,"  he  said  to  the  man,  getting 
between  him  and  her. 

"  Mind  your  own  business,"  returned  the  man,  in  a 
voice  that  showed  he  was  di'unk. 

For  a  moment  Roger  was  undecided  what  to  do  ;  for 
he  feared  involving  Miss  Clare  in  a  roiv,  as  he  called  it. 
But  when  the  fellow,  pushing  suddenly  past  him,  laid 
his  hand  on  Miss  Clare,  and  shoved  her  away,  he  gave 
him  a  blow  that  sent  him  staggering  into  tlie  street; 
whereupon,  to  his  astonishment.  Miss  Clare,  leaving  the 
woman,  followed  the  man,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  recov- 
ered his  equilibrium,  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  spoke 
to  him,  but  in  a  voice  so  low  and  gentle  that  Roger,  wlio 
had  followed  her,  could  not  hear  a  word  she  said.  For 
a  moment  or  two  the  man  seemed  to  try  to  listen,  but 
his  condition  was  too  much  for  him;  and,  turnings  from 
her,  he  began  again  to  follow  the  woman,  who  was  now 
walking  wearily  away.      Roger  again  intei'posed. 

"  Don't  strike  him,  Mr.  Roger,"  cried  Miss  Clare  : 
"  he's  too  drunk  for  that.  But  keep  him  back  if  you 
can,  while  I  take  the  woman  away.  If  I  see  a  police- 
man, I  will  send  him." 

The  man  heard  her  last  words,  and  they  roused  him 
to  fury.  He  rushed  at  Roger,  who,  implicitly  obedient, 
only  dodged  to  let  him  pass,  and  again  confronted  him, 
engaging  his  attention  until  help  arrived.  He  was,  how- 
ever, by  this  time  so  fierce  and  violent,  that  Roger  felt 
bound  to  assist  the  policeman. 

As  soon  as  the  man  was  locked  up,  he  went  to  Lime 
Court.  The  moon  was  shining,  and  the  narrow  jjassage 
lay  bright  beneath  her.  Along  the  street,  people  were 
going  and  coming,  though  it  was  past  midnight,  but  the 
court  was  very  still.  He  walked  into  it  as  far  as  the 
spot  where  we  had  together  seen  Miss  Clare.  The  door 
at  which  she  had  entered  was  open;  but  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  house  or  its  people,  and  feared  to  com- 
promise her  by  making  inquiries.  He  walked  several 
times  up  and  down,  somewhat  anxious,  but  gradually 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  189 

persuading  himself  that  in  all  probability  no  further  an- 
noyance had  befallen  her;  until  at  last  he  felt  able  to 
leave  the  place. 

He  came  back  to  our  house,  where,  finding  his  brother 
at  his  final  pipe  in  the  study,  he  told  him  all  about  their 
adventure. 


CHAPTER  XXrV. 

MY   FIRST   TERROR. 

One  of  the  main  discomforts  in  writing  a  book  is, 
tbat  there  are  so  many  ways  in  which  every  thing,  as  it 
comes  up,  might  be  told,  and  you  can't  tell  which  is  the 
best.  You  believe  there  must  be  a  best  way ;  but  yon 
might  spend  your  life  in  trying  to  satisfy  yourself  which 
was  that  best  way,  and,  when  you  came  to  the  close  of 
it,  find  3^ou  had  done  nothing,  —  hadn't  even  found  out 
the  way.  I  have  always  to  remind  myself  that  some- 
thing, even  if  it  be  far  from  the  best  thing,  is  better 
than  nothing.  Perhaps  the  only  way  to  arrive  at  the 
best  way  is  to  make  plenty  of  blunders,  and  find  them 
out. 

This  morning  I  had  been  sitting  a  long  time  with  my 
pen  in  my  hand,  thinking  what  this  chapter  ought  to 
be  about,  —  that  is,  what  part  of  my  own  history,  or  of 
that  of  my  neighbors  interwoven  therewith,  I  ought  to 
take  up  next,  —  when  my  third  child,  my  little  Cecilia, 
Hged  five,  came  into  the  room,  and  said,  — 

"  Mamma,  there's  a  poor  man  at  the  door,  and  Jemima 
won't  give  bim  any  thing." 

"Quite  right,  my  dear.  We  must  give  what  we  can 
to  people  we  know.  We  are  sure  then  that  it  is  not 
wasted." 

"  But  he's  so  very  poor,  mamma  ! " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"Poor  man  !  he  has  only  three  children.  I  heard  him 
tell  Jemima.  He  was  so  sorry  !  And  Fm.  very  sorry, 
too." 

"  But  don't  you  know  you  mustn't  go  to  the  door  when 
any  one  is  talking  to  Jemima  ?  "  I  said. 

190 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  191 

"  Yes,  mamma.  I  didn't  go  to  the  door  :  I  stood  in 
the  hall  and  peeped." 

"  But  you  mustn't  even  stand  in  the  hall,"  I  said. 
"  Mind  that." 

This  was,  perhaps,  rather  an  oppressive  reading  of  a 
proper  enough  rule ;  hut  I  had  a  very  special  reason 
for  it,  involving  an  important  event  in  my  story,  which 
occurred  about  two  years  after  what  I  have  last  set 
down. 

One  morning  Percivale  took  a  holiday  in  order  to  give 
me  one,  and  we  went  to  spend  it  at  Richmond.  It  was 
the  anniversary  of  our  marriage ;  and  as  we  wanted  to 
enjoy  it  thoroughly,  and,  precious  as  children  are,  every 
pleasure  is  not  enhanced  by  their  company,  we  left  ours 
at  home,  —  Ethel  and  her  brother  Koger  (named  after 
Percivale's  father),  who  was  now  nearly  a  year  old,  and 
wanted  a  good  deal  of  attention.  It  was  a  lovely  day, 
with  just  a  sufficient  number  of  passing  clouds  to  glorify 
—  that  is,  to  do  justice  to  —  the  sunshine,  and  a  gentle 
breeze,  which  itself  seemed  to  be  taking  a  holiday,  for 
it  blew  only  just  when  3'ou  wanted  it,  and  then  only 
enough  to  make  you  think  of  that  wind  which,  blowing 
where  it  lists,  always  blows  where  it  is  wanted.  We 
took  the  train  to  Hammersmith  ;  for  my  husband,  hav- 
ing consulted  the  tide-table,  and  found  that  the  river 
would  be  propitious,  wished  to  row  me  from  there  to 
Richmond.  How  gay  the  river-side  looked,  with  its  fine 
broad  landing  stage,  and  the  numberless  boats  ready  to 
push  off"  on  the  swift  water,  which  kept  growing  and 
growing  on  the  shingly  shore !  Percivale,  however, 
would  hire  his  boat  at  a  certain  builder's  shed,  that  I 
might  see  it.  That  shed  alone  would  have  been  worth 
coming  to  see  —  such  a  picture  of  loveliest  gloom  —  as 
if  it  had  been  the  cave  where  the  twilight  abode  its 
time  !  You  could  not  tell  w'hether  to  call  it  light  or 
shade,  —  that  diffused  presence  of  a  soft  elusive  brown  ; 
but  is  what  we  call  shade  any  thing  but  subdued  light? 
All  about,  above,  and  below,  lay  the  graceful  creatures 
of  the  water,  moveless  and  dead  here  on  the  shore,  but 
there  —  launched  into  their  own  elemental  world,  and 


192  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

blown  upon  by  the  living  wind  —  endowed  at  once  with 
life  and  motion  and  quick  response. 

i^ot  having  been  used  to  boats,  I  felt  nervous  as  we 
got  into  the  long,  sharp-nosed,  hollow  fish  which  Per- 
civale  made  them  shoot  out  on  the  rising  tide ;  but  the 
slight  fear  vanished  almost  the  moment  we  were  afloat, 
when,  ignorant  as  I  was  of  the  art  of  rowing,  I  could 
not  help  seeing  how  perfectly  Percivale  was  at  home  in 
it.  The  oars  in  his  hands  were  like  knitting-needles  in 
mine,  so  deftly,  so  swimmingly,  so  variously,  did  he 
wield  them.  Only  once  my  fear  returned,  when  he 
stood  up  in  the  swaying  thing — a  mere  length  without 
breadth  —  to  pull  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat ;  but  he 
stood  steady,  sat  down  gently,  took  his  oars  quietly,  and 
the  same  instant  we  were  shooting  so  fast  through  the 
rising  tide  that  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  pulling  the  water 
up  to  Richmond. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  steer  ? "  said  my  husband. 
"  It  would  amuse  you." 

"  I  should  like  to  learn,"  I  said,  —  "  not  that  I  want 
to  be  amused;  I  am  too  happy  to  care  for  amusement.'' 

"  Take  those  two  cords  behind  you,  then,  one  in  each 
hand,  sitting  between  them.  That  will  do.  Now,  if 
you  want  me  to  go  to  your  right,  pull  your  right-hand 
cord  ;  if  you  want  me  to  go  to  your  left,  pull  your  left- 
hand  one." 

I  made  an  experiment  or  two,  and  found  the  predicted 
consequences  follow :  I  ran  him  aground,  first  on  one 
bank,  then  on  the  other.  But  when  I  did  so  a  third 
time,  — 

'•'  Come  !  come  !  "  he  said  :  "  this  won't  do,  Mrs.  Per- 
civale. You're  not  trying  your  best.  There  is  such  a 
thing  as  gradation  in  steering  as  well  as  in  painting,  or 
music,  or  any  thing  else  that  is  worth  doing." 

"  I  pull  the  right  line,  don't  I  ?  "  I  said  ;  for  I  was 
now  in  a  mood  to  tease  him. 

''  Yes  —  to  a  wrong  result,"  he  answered.  "  You 
must  feel  your  rudder,  as  you  would  'the  mouth  of  your 
horse  with  the  bit,  and  not  do  any  thing  violent,  except 
in  urgent  necessity." 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  195 

interrogation,  just  able  to  gasp  out  —  "  Have  you  found 
her,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Found  whom  ? "  I  returned  in  alarm,  both  at  the 
question  aud  at  the  face  of  the  girl ;  for  through  the  dusk 
I  now  saw  that  it  was  very  pale,  and  that  her  eyes  were 
red  with  crying. 

"  Miss  Ethel,"  she  answered  in  a  cry  choked  with  a 
sob  ;  and  dropping  again  on  the  sofa,  she  hid  her  face 
once  more  between  her  hands. 

I  rushed  to  the  study-door,  and  called  Percivale  ;  then 
returned  to  question  the  girl.  I  wonder  now  that  I  did 
nothing  outrageous ;  but  fear  kept  down  folly,  and  made 
me  unnaturally  calm. 

"  Sarah,"  I  said,  as  quietly  as  I  could,  while  I  trembled 
all  over,  "  tell  me  what  has  happened.  Where  is  the 
child  ?  " 

"  Indeed  it's  not  my  fault,  ma'am.  I  was  busy  with 
Master  Roger,  and  Miss  Ethel  was  down  stairs  with 
Jemima." 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  I  repeated  sternly. 

''  I  don't  know  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon, 
ma'am." 

"  Where's  Jemima  ?  " 

"  Hun  out  to  look  for  her  ?  " 

"  How  long  have  you  missed  her  ?  " 

''  An  hour.  Or  perhaps  two  hours.  I  don't  know, 
my  head's  in  such  a  whirl.  I  can't  remember  when  I 
saw  her  last.     0  ma'am  !     What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Percivale  had  come  up,  and  was  standing  beside  me. 
When  I  looked  round,  he  was  as  pale  as  death ;  and  at 
the  sight  of  his  face,  I  nearly  dropped  on  the  floor. 
But  he  caught  hold  of  me,  and  said,  in  a  voice  so  dread- 
fully still  that  it  frightened  me  more  than  any  thing,  — 

"  Come,  my  love ;  do  not  give  way,  for  we  must  go  to 
the  police  at  once."  Then,  turning  to  Sarah,  "Have 
you  searched  the  house  and  garden '.'' "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  every  hole  and  corner.  We've  looked  un- 
der every  bed,  and  into  every  cupboard  and  chest,  —  the 
coal-cellar,  the  boxroom,  —  everywhere." 

"'The  bathroom  ?  "  I  cried. 


196  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am  !  the  bathroom,  and  everywhere." 

"  Have  there  been  any  tramps  about  the  house  since 
we  left?"  Percivale  asked. 

"Not  that  I  know  of;  but  the  nursery  window  looks 
into  the  garden,  you  know,  sir.  Jemima  didn't  mention 
it." 

"Come  then,  my  dear,"  said  my  husband. 

He  compelled  me  to  swallow  a  glass  of  wine,  and  led 
me  awa}'^,  almost  unconscious  of  my  bodily  movements, 
to  the  nearest  cab-stand.  I  wondered  afterwards,  when 
I  recalled  the  calm  gaze  with  which  he  glanced  along  the 
line,  and  chose  the  horse  whose  appearance  promised  the 
best  speed.  In  a  few  minutes  we  were  telling  the  in- 
spector at  the  police-station  in  Albany  Street  what  had 
happened.  He  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  asking  one 
question  after  another  about  her  age,  appearance,  and 
dress,  wrote  down  our  answers.  He  then  called  a  man, 
to  whom  he  gave  the  paper,  with  some  words  of  direction. 

"  The  men  are  now  going  on  their  beats  for  the 
night,"  he  said,  turning  again  to  us.  "  They  will  all 
hear  the  description  of  the  child,  and  some  of  them  have 
orders  to  search." 

"Thank  you,"  said  my  husband.  "Which  station 
had  we  better  go  to  next  ?  " 

"  The  news  will  be  at  the  farthest  before  j^ou  can 
reach  the  nearest,"  he  answered.  "  We  shall  telegraph 
to  the  suburbs  first." 

"  Then  what  more  is  there  we  can  do  ?  "  asked  Per- 
civale. 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  inspector,  —  "  except  you  find 
out  whether  any  of  the  neighbors  saw  her,  and  when 
and  where.  It  would  be  something  to  know  in  what 
direction  she  was  going.  Have  you  any  ground  for  sus- 
picion ?  Have  you  ever  discharged  a  servant  ?  Were 
any  tramps  seen  about  the  place  ?  " 

"I  know  who  it  is!"  I  cried.  "It's  the  woman  that 
took  Theodora  !  It's  Theodora's  mother  !  I  know  it 
is ! " 

Percivale  explained  what  I  meant. 

"  That's  what  people  get,  you  see,  when  they  take  on 

It 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  197 

fhemselves  other  people's  business,"  returned  the  in- 
spector. "That  child  ought  to  have  been  sent  to  the 
workhouse." 

He  laid  his  head  on  his  hand  for  a  moment. 

"  It  seems  likely  enough,"  he  added.  Then  after  an- 
other pause —  "I  have  your  address.  The  child  shall 
be  brought  back  to  you  the  moment  she's  found.  We 
can't  mistake  her  after  your  description." 

''Where  are  you  going  now?  "  I  said  to  my  husband, 
as  we  left  the  station  to  re-enter  the  cab. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  "  except  we  go  home 
and  question  all  the  shops  in  the  neighborhood." 

"  Let  us  go  to  Miss  Clare  first,"  I  said. 

"  By  all  means,"  he  answered. 

We  were  soon  at  the  entrance  of  Lime  Court. 

When  we  turned  the  corner  in  the  middle  of  it,  we 
heard  the  sound  of  a  piano. 

"  She's  at  home ! "  I  cried,  with  a  feeble  throb  of  sat- 
isfaction. The  fear  that  she  might  be  out  had  for  the 
last  few  moments  been  uppermost. 

We  entered  the  house,  and  ascended  the  stairs  in 
haste.  Not  a  creature  did  we  meet,  except  a  wicked- 
looking  cat.  The  top  of  her  head  was  black,  her  fore- 
head and  face  white ;  and  the  black  and  white  were 
shaped  so  as  to  look  like  hair  parted  over  a  white  fore- 
head, which  gave  her  green  eyes  a  frightfully  human  look 
as  she  crouched  in  the  corner  of  a  window-sill  in  the 
light  of  a  gas-lamp  outside.  But  before  we  reached  the 
top  of  the  first  stair  we  heard  the  sounds  of  dancing,  as 
well  as  of  music.  In  a  moment  after,  with  our  load  of 
gnawing  fear  and  helpless  eagerness,  we  stood  in  tlie 
midst  of  a  merry  assembly  of  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren, who  filled  Miss  Clare's  room  to  overflowing.  It 
was  Saturday  night,  and  they  were  gathered  according 
to  custom  for  their  weekly  music. 

They  made  a  way  for  us ;  and  Miss  Clare  left  the 
piano,  and  came  to  meet  us  with  a  smile  on  her  beautiful 
face.     But,  when  she  saw  our  faces,  hers  fell. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Percivale  ? "  she  asked 
in  alarm. 

17* 


198  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  sunk  on  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen. 

"  We've  lost  Ethel,"  said  my  husband  quietly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     You  don't "  — 

"No,  no:  she's  gone;  she's  stolen.  We  don't  know 
whore  she  is,"  he  answered  with  faltering  voice.  "  We've 
just  been  to  the  police." 

Miss  Clare  turned  white  ;  but,  instead  of  making  any 
remark,  she  called  out  to  some  of  her  friends  whose 
^g©od  manners  were  making  them  leave  the  room, — 

"  Don't  go,  please ;  we  want  you."  Then  turning  to 
me,  she  asked,  ''  May  I  do  as  I  think  best  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  answered  my  husband. 

"  M}?^  friend,  Mrs.  Percivale,"  she  said,  addressing  the 
whole  assembly',  "has  lost  her  little  girl." 

A  murmur  of  dismay  and  sympathy  arose. 

"  What  can  we  do  to  find  her  ?  "  she  went  on, 

Thej'-  fell  to  talking  among  themselves.  The  next 
instant,  two  men  came  up  to  us,  making  their  way  from 
the  neighborhood  of  the  door.  The  one  was  a  keen- 
faced,  elderly  man,  with  iron-gray  whiskers  and  clean- 
shaved  chin  ;  the  other  was  my  first  acquaintance  in  the 
neighborhood,  the  young  bricklayer.  The  elder  ad- 
dressed my  husband,  while  the  other  listened  without 
speaking. 

"  Tell  us  what  she's  like,  sir,  and  how  she  was 
dressed  —  though  that  ain't  much  use.  She'll  be  all 
different  by  tliis  time." 

The  words  shot  a  keener  pang  to  my  heart  than  it 
had  yet  felt.  My  darling  stripped  of  her  nice  clothes, 
and  covered  with  dirty,  perhaps  infected  garments. 
But  it  was  no  time  to  give  way  to  feeling. 

My  husband  repeated  to  the  men  the  description  he 
had  given  tlie  police,  loud  enough  for  the  whole  room 
to  hear;  and  the  women  in  particular.  Miss  Clare  told  me 
afterwards,  caught  it  up  with  remarkable  accuracy.  They 
would  not  have  done  so,  she  said,  but  that  their  feelings 
were  touched. 

"  Tell  them  also,  please,  Mr.  Percivale,  about  the  child 
Mrs.  Percivale's  father  and  mother  found  and  brought 
up.     That  may  have  something  to  do  with  this." 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  199 

My  husband  told  them  all  the  story  ;  adding  that  the 
mother  of  the  child  might  have  found  out  who  we  were, 
and  taken  ours  as  a  pledge  for  the  recovery  of  her  own. 

Here  one  of  the  women  spoke. 

"  That  dark  woman  you  took  in  one  night  —  two  years 
ago,  miss  —  she  say  something.  I  was  astin'  of  her  in 
the  mornin'  what  her  trouble  was,  for  that  trouble  she 
had  on  her  mind  was  plain  to  see,  and  she  come  over 
something,  half-way  like,  about  losin'  of  a  child ;  but 
whether  it  were  dead,  or  strayed,  or  stolen,  or  what,  I 
couldn't  tell ;  and  no  more,  I  believe,  she  wanted  me 
to." 

Here  another  woman  spoke. 

"  I'm  'most  sure  I  saw  her  —  the  same  woman  —  two 
days  ago,  and  no  furrer  off  than  Gower  Street,"  she  said. 
"  You're  too  good  by  half,  miss,"  she  went  on,  "  to  the 
likes  of  sich.     They  ain't  none  of  them  respectable." 

"Perhaps  you'll  see  some  good  come  out  of  it  before 
long,"  said  Miss  Clare  in  reply. 

The  words  sounded  like  a  rebuke,  for  all  this  time  I 
had  hardly  sent  a  thought  upwards  for  help.  The  image 
of  my  child  had  so  filled  my  heart,  that  there  was  no  room 
left  for  the  thought  of  duty,  or  even  of  God. 

Miss  Clare  went  on,  still  addressing  the  company,  and 
her  words  had  a  tone  of  authority. 

'■'  I  will  tell  you  what  you  must  do,"  she  said.  '•  You 
must,  every  one  of  you,  run  and  tell  everybody  you  know, 
and  tell  every  one  to  tell  everybody  else.  You  mustn't 
stop  to  talk  it  over  with  each'  other,  or  let  those  you  tell 
it  to  stop  to  talk  to  you  about  it ;  for  it  is  of  the  greatest 
consequence  no  time  should  be  lost  in  making  it  as 
quickly  and  as  widely  known  as  possible.     Go,  please." 

In  a  few  moments  the  room  was  empty  of  all  but  our- 
selves. The  rush  on  the  stairs  was  tremendous  for  a 
single  minute,  and  then  all  was  still.  Even  the  children 
had  rushed  out  to  tell  what  other  children  they  could 
find. 

"What  must  we  do  next?  "  said  my  husband. 

Miss  Clare  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  I  would  go  and  tell  Mr.  Blackstone,"  she  said,    "  It 


200  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

is  a  long  way  from  here,  but  whoever  has  taken  the 
child  would  not  bo  likely  to  linger  in  the  neighborhood. 
It  is  best  to  try  every  thing." 

"  Right,"  said  my  husband.     "  Come,  Wynnie." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  leave  Mrs.  Percivale  with 
me  ?"  said  Miss  Clare.  "It  is  dreadfully  fatiguing  to 
go  driving  over  the  stones." 

It  was  very  kind  of  her;  but  if  she  had  been  a  mother 
she  would  not  have  thouglit  of  parting  me  from  my  hus- 
band ;  neither  would  she  have  fancied  that  I  could  re- 
main inactive  so  long  as  it  was  possible  even  to  imagine 
I  was  doing  something  ;  but  when  I  told  her  how  I  felt, 
she  saw  at  once  that  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  go. 

We  set  off  instantlj^,  and  drove  to  Mr.  Blackstone's. 
What  a  long  way  it  was  !  Down  Oxford  Street  and 
Holborn  we  rattled  and  jolted,  and  then  through  many 
narrow  ways  in  which  I  had  never  been,  emerging  at 
length  in  a  broad  road,  with  many  poor  and  a  few  fine 
old  houses  in  it ;  then  again  plunging  into  still  more 
shabby  regions  of  small  houses,  which,  alas  !  were  new, 
and  yet  wretched !  At  length,  near  an  open  space, 
where  yet  not  a  blade  of  grass  could  grow  for  the  tramp- 
ling of  many  feet,  and  for  the  smoke  from  tall  chim- 
neys, close  by  a  gasometer  of  awful  size,  we  found  the 
parsonage,  and  Mr.  Blackstone  in  his  study.  The  mo- 
ment he  heard  our  story  he  went  to  the  door  and  called 
his  servant.  "Run,  Jabez,"  he  said,  "and  tell  the  sex- 
ton to  ring  the  church-bell.  I  will  come  to  him  directly 
I  hear  it." 

I  may  just  mention  that  Jabez  and  his  wife,  who 
formed  the  whole  of  Mr.  Blackstone's  household,  did  not 
belong  to  his  congregation,  but  were  members  of  a  small 
community  in  the  neighborhood,  calling  themselves  Pe- 
culiar Baptists. 

About  ten  minutes  passed,  during  which  little  was 
said :  Mr.  Blackstone  never  seemed  to  have  any  mode 
of  expressing  his  feelings  except  action,  and  where  that 
was  impossible  they  took  hardly  any  recognizable  shape. 
When  the  first  boom  of  the  big  bell  filled  the  little 
study  in  which  we  sat,  I  gave  a  cry,  and  jumped  up  from 


TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  201 

my  chair :  it  sounded  in  my  ears  like  the  knell  of  my 
lost  baby,  for  at  the  moment  I  was  thinking  of  her  as 
once  when  a  baby  she  lay  for  dead  in  my  arras.  Mr. 
Blackstone  got  up  and  left  the  room,  and  my  husband 
rose  and  would  have  followed  him;  but,  saying  he  would 
be  back  in  a  few  minutes,  he  shut  the  door  and  left  us. 
It  was  half  an  hour,  a  dreadful  half-hour,  before  he  re- 
turned ;  for  to  sit  doing  nothing,  not  even  being  carried 
somewhere  to  do  something,  was  frightful. 

"I've  told  them  all  about  it,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't 
do  better  than  follow  Miss  Clare's  example.  But  my 
impression  is,  that,  if  the  woman  you  suspect  be  the  cul- 
prit, she  would  make  her  way  out  to  tbe  open  as  quickly 
as  possible.  Such  people  are  most  at  home  on  the  com- 
mons: they  are  of  a  less  gregarious  nature  than  the 
wild  animals  of  the  town.     What  shall  you  do  next  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  want  to  know,"  answered  my 
husband. 

He  never  asked  advice  except  when  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do ;  and  never  except  from  one  whose  advice 
he  meant  to  follow. 

''  Well,"  returned  Mr.  Blackstone,  "  I  should  put  an 
advertisement  into  every  one  of  the  morning  papers." 

"  But  the  offices  will  all  be  closed,"  said  Percivale. 

"  Yes,  the  publishing,  but  not  the  printing  offices." 

"  How  am  I  to  find  out  where  they  are  ?  " 

"  I  know  one  or  two  of  them,  and  the  people  there 
will  tell  us  the  rest." 

"  Then  you  mean  to  go  with  us  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,  —  that  is,  if  you  will  have  me.  You 
don't  think  I  would  leave  you  to  go  alone  ?  Have  j^ou 
had  any  supper  ?  " 

"No.  Would  you  like  something,  my  dear?"  said 
Percivale  turning  to  me. 

"  I  couldn't  swallow  a  mouthful,"  I  said. 

"  Nor  I  either,"  said  Percivale. 

"  Then  I'll  just  take  a  hunch  of  bread  with  me,"  said 
Mr.  Blackstone,  "for  I  am  hungry.  I've  had  nothing 
since  one  o'clock." 

We  neither  asked  him  not  to  go,  n<or  offered   to  wait 


202  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

till  lie  had  had  his  supper.  Before  we  reached  Printing- 
House  Square  he  had  eaten  half  a  loaf. 

"  Are  yon  sure,"  said  my  husband,  as  we  were  start- 
ing, "  that  they  will  take  an  advertisement  at  the  print- 
ing-office ?  " 

"  I  think  they  will.  The  circumstances  are  pressing. 
They  will  see  that  we  are  honest  people,  and  will  make 
a  push  to  help  us.  But  for  any  thing  I  know  it  may 
be  quite  e}i  regie." 

"AVe  must  pay,  though,"  said  Percivale,  putting  his 
hand  in  his  pocket,  and  taking  out  his  purse.  "There  ! 
Just  as  I  feared  !  No  money  !  —  Two  —  three  shillings 
—  and  sixpence  !  " 

Mr.  Blackstone  stopped  the  cab. 

"  I've  not  got  as  much,"  he  said.  "  But  it's  of  no 
consequence.     I'll  run  and  write  a  check." 

"But  where  can  you  change  it?  The  little  shops 
about  here  won't  be  able." 

"  There's  the  Blue  Posts." 

"  Let  me  take  it,  then.  You  won't  be  seen  going  into 
a  public-house  ?  "  said  Percivale. 

"  Pooh  !  pooh  ! "  said  Mr.  Blackstone.  "  Do  you 
think  my  character  won't  stand  that  much  ?  Besides, 
they  wouldn't  change  it  for  you.  But  when  I  think  of 
it,  I  used  the  last  check  in  my  book  in  the  beginning  of 
the  week.     Kever  mind  ;   they  will  lend  me  five  pounds." 

We  drove  to  the  Blue  Posts.  He  got  out,  and  re- 
turned in  one  minute  with  five  sovereigns. 

'•  What  will  people  say  to  your  borrowing  five  }^)ounda 
at  a  public-house  ?  "  said  Percivale. 

''  If  they  say  what  is  right,  it  won't  hurt  me." 

"  But  if  they  say  what  is  wrong  ?  " 

"That  they  can  do  anytime,  and  that  won't  hurt  me, 
either." 

"  But  what  will  the  landlord  himself  think  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  feels  grateful  to  me  for  being  so 
friendly.  You  can't  oblige  a  man  more  than  by  asking 
a  li(/ht  favor  of  him." 

"  Do  you  think  it  well  in  your  position  to  be  obliged 
to  a  man  in  his  ?  "  asked  Percivale. 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  203 

''  I  do.  I  am  glad  of  the  chance.  It  will  bring  me 
into  friendly  relations  with  him." 

''  Do  you  wish,  then,  to  be  in  friendly  relations  with 
him  ?  " 

"  Indubitably.  In  what  other  relations  do  you  sup- 
pose a  clergyman  ought  to  be  with  one  of  his  parish- 
ioners ?  " 

"  You  didn't  invite  him  into  your  parish,  I  presume." 

"  No  ;  and  he  didn't  invite  me.  The  thing  was  settled 
in  higher  quarters.  There  we  are,  anyhow  ;  and  I  have 
done  quite  a  stroke  of  business  in  borrowing  that  money 
of  him." 

Mr.  Blackstone  laughed,  and  the  laugh  sounded 
frightfully  harsh  in  my  ears. 

''  A  man  "  —  my  husband  went  on,  who  was  surprised 
that  a  clergyman  should  be  so  liberal  —  "a  man  who 
sells  drink  !  —  in  whose  house  so  many  of  your  parish- 
ioners will  to-morrow  night  get  too  drunk  to  be  in 
church  tlie  next  morning  !  " 

"I  wish  having  been  drunk  were  what  ivould  keep 
them  from  being  in  church.  Drunk  or  sober,  it  would 
be  all  the  same.  Few  of  them  care  to  go.  They  are 
turning  out  better,  however,  than  when  first  I  came.  As 
for  the  publican,  who  knows  what  chance  of  doing  him 
a  good  turn  it  may  put  in  my  way  ?  " 

"  You  don't  expect  to  persuade  him  to  shut  up  shop  ?  " 

"  No  :  he  must  persuade  himself  to  that." 

"  What  good,  then,  can  you  expect  to  do  him  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  I  say.  You  can't  tell  what  good  may 
or  may  not  come  out  of  it,  any  more  than  you  can  tell 
which  of  your  efforts,  or  which  of  your  he]i>ers,  may  this 
night  be  the  means  of  restoring  your  child." 

"  What  do  you  expect  the  man  to  sa}^  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  shall  provide  him  with  something  to  say.  I  don't 
want  him  to  attribute  it  to  some  foolish  charity.  He 
might.  In  the  New  Testament,  publicans  are  acknowl- 
edged to  have  hearts." 

"  Yes ;  but  the  word  has  a  very  different  meaning  in 
the  New  Testament." 

"  The    feeling   religious    people    bear    towards    them, 


204  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

however,  comes  very  near  to  that  with  which    society 
regarded  the  publicans  of  old." 

"  They  are  far  more  hurtful  to  society  than  those  tax- 
gatherers." 

"  They  may  be.  I  dare  say  they  are.  Perhaps  they 
are  worse  than  the  sinners  with  whom  their  namesakes 
of  the  New  Testament  are  always  coupled." 

I  will  not  follow  the  conversation  further.  I  will  only 
give  the  close  of  it.  Percivale  told  me  afterwards  that 
he  had  gone  on  talking  in  the  hope  of  diverting  my 
thoughts  a  little. 

"  What,  then,  do  you  mean  to  tell  him  ?  "  asked  Per- 
civale. 

"  The  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  hut  the 
truth,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone.  "  I  shall  go  in  to-morrow 
morning,  just  at  the  time  when  there  will  probably  be 
far  too  many  people  at  the  bar,  —  a  little  after  noon.  I 
shall  return  him  his  five  sovereigns,  ask  for  a  glass  of 
ale,  and  tell  him  the  whole  story,  —  how  my  friend,  the 
celebrated  painter,  came  with  his  wife,  —  and  the  rest 
of  it,  adding,  I  trust,  that  the  child  is  all  right,  and  at 
the  moment  probably  going  out  for  a  walk  with  her 
mother,  who  won't  let  her  out  of  her  sight  for  a  mo- 
ment." 

He  laughed  again,  and  again  I  thought  him  heart- 
less ;  but  I  understand  him  better  now.  I  wondered, 
too,  that  Percivale  could  go  on  talking,  and  yet  I  found 
that  their  talk  did  make  the  time  go  a  little  quicker. 
At  length  we  reached  the  printing-office  of  "The 
Times,"  —  near  Blackfriars'  Bridge,  I  think. 

After  some  delay,  we  saw  an  overseer,  who,  curt 
enough  at  first,  became  friendly  when  he  heard  our  case. 
If  he  had  not  had  children  of  his  own,  we  might  per- 
haps have  fared  worse.  He  took  down  the  description 
and  address,  and  promised  that  the  advertisement  should 
appear  in  the  morning's  paper  in  the  best  place  he  could 
now  find  for  it. 

Before  we  left,  we  received  minute  directions  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  the  next  nearest  office.  We  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  night  in  driving  from  one  printing- 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  205 

ofiSce  to  another.  Mr.  Blackstone  declared  he  would  not 
leave  us  until  we  had  found  her. 

"  You  have  to  preach  twice  to-morrow,"  said  Perci- 
vale  :  it  was  then  three  o'clock. 

"  I  shall  preach  all  the  better,"  he  returned.  "  Yes  : 
I  feel  as  if  I  should  give  them  one  good  sermon  to- 
morrow." 

"  The  man  talks  as  if  the  child  were  found  already !  " 
I  thought,  with  indignation.  '*  It's  a  pity  he  hasn't  a 
child  of  his  own  !  he  would  be  more  sympathetic."  At 
the  same  time,  if  I  had  been  honest,  I  should  have  con- 
fessed to  myself  that  his  confidence  and  hope  helped  to 
keep  me  up. 

At  last,  having  been  to  the  printing-office  of  every 
daily  paper  in  London,  we  were  on  our  dreary  way  home. 

Oh,  how  dreary  it  was  !  —  and  the  more  dreary  that 
the  cool,  sweet  light  of  a  spring  dawn  was  growing  in 
every  street,  no  smoke  having  yet  begun  to  pour  from 
the  multitudinous  chimneys  to  sully  its  purity  !  From 
misery  and  want  of  sleep,  my  soul  and  body  both  felt 
like  a  gray  foggy  night.  Every  now  and  then  the 
thought  of  my  child  came  with  a  fresh  pang,  —  not  that 
she  was  one  moment  absent  from  me,  but  that  a  new 
thought  about  her  would  dart  a  new  sting  into  the  ever- 
burning throb  of  the  wound.  If  you  had  asked  me  the 
one  blessed  thing  in  the  world,  I  should  have  said  sleejJ 
—  with  my  husband  and  children  beside  me.  But  I 
dreaded  sleep  now,  both  for  its  visions  and  for  the 
frightful  waking.  Now  and  then  I  would  start  violently, 
thinking  I  heard  my  Ethel  cry ;  but  from  the  cab-win- 
dow no  child  was  ever  to  be  seen,  down  all  the  lonely 
street.  Then  I  would  sink  into  a  succession  of  efforts  to 
picture  to  myself  her  little-  face,  —  white  with  terror 
and  misery,  and  smeared  with  the  dirt  of  the  pitiful 
hands  that  rubbed  the  streaming  eyes.  They  might 
have  beaten  her !  she  might  have  cried  herself  to  sleep 
in  some  wretched  hovel ;  or,  worse,  in  some  fever-stricken 
and  crowded  lodging-house,  with  horrible  sights  about 
her  and  horrible  voices  in  her  ears !  Or  she  miglit  at 
that  moment  be  dragged  wearily  along  a  country-road, 

18 


206  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

farther  ana  farther  from  her  mother!  I  could  have 
shrieked,  and  torn  my  liair.  What  if  I  should  never  see 
her  again  ?  She  might  be  murdered,  and  I  never  know 
it !     0  m_y  darling  !  my  darling  ! 

At  the  thought  a  groan  escaped  me.  A  hand  was  laid 
on  my  arm.  That  I  knew  was  my  husband's.  But  a 
voice  was  in  my  ear,  and  that  was  Mr.  Blackstone's. 

'•Do  you  think  God  loves  the  child  less  than  you  do  ? 
Or  do  you  think  he  is  less  able  to  take  care  of  her  than 
you  are  ?  When  the  disciples  thought  themselves  sink- 
ing, Jesus  rebuked  them  for  being  afraid.  Be  still,  and 
you  will  see  the  hand  of  God  in  this.  Good  you  cannot 
foresee  will  come  out  of  it."  ' 

I  could  not  answer  him,  but  I  felt  both  rebuked  and 
grateful. 

All  at  once  I  thought  of  Roger.  What  would  he  say 
when  he  found  that  his  pet  was  gone,  and  we  had  never 
told  him  ? 

"  Koger  !  "  I  said  to  my  husband.  "  We've  never 
told  him  ! " 

''  Let  us  go  now,"  he  returned. 

We  were  at  the  moment  close  to  North  Crescent. 

After  a  few  thundering  raps  at  the  door,  the  landlady 
came  down.  Percivale  rushed  up,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
returned  with  Roger.  They  got  into  the  cab.  A  great 
talk  followed  ;  but  I  heard  hardly  any  thing,  or  rather  I 
heeded  nothing.  I  only  recollect  that  Roger  was  very 
indignant  with  his  brother  for  having  been  out  all  night 
without  him  to  help. 

"I  never  thought  of  3^ou,  Roger,"  said  Percivale. 

"  So  much  the  worse  ! "  said  Roger. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone.  "A  thousand  things 
make  us  forget.  I  dare  say  your  brother  all  but  forgot 
God  in  the  first  misery  of  his  loss.  To  have  thought  of 
you,  and  not  to  have  told  you,  would  have  been  another 
thing." 

A  few  minutes  after,  we  stopped  at  our  desolate  house, 
and  the  cabm.an  was  dismissed  with  one  of  the  sovereigns 
from  the  Blue  Posts.  I  wondered  afterwards  what  man- 
ner of  man  or  woman  had  changed  it  there.     A  dim 


THE    n CAR'S  DAUGHTER.  207 

light  was  burning  in  the  drawing-room.  Percivale  took 
his  pass-key,  and  opened  the  door.  I  hurried  in,  and 
went  straight  to  my  own  room;  for  I  longed  to  be  alone 
that  I  might  weep  —  nor  weep  only.  I  fell  on  my  knees 
by  the  bedside,  buried  my  face,  and  sobbed,  and  tried  to 
pray.  But  I  could  not  collect  my  thoughts ;  and,  over- 
whelmed by  a  fresh  access  of  despair,  I  started  again  to 
my  feet. 

Could  I  believe  my  eyes  ?  Wliat  was  that  in  the  bed  ? 
Trembling  as  with  an  ague,  —  in  terror  lest  the  vision 
should  by  vanishing  prove  itself  a  vision,  —  I  stooped 
towards  it.  I  heard  a  breathing !  It  was  the  fair  hair 
and  the  rosy  face  of  my  darling  —  fast  asleep  —  without 
one  trace  of  suffering  on  her  angelic  loveliness  !  I  re- 
member no  more  for  a  while.  They  tell  me  I  gave  a 
great  cry,  and  fell  on  the  floor.  When  I  came  to  myself 
I  was  lying  on  the  bed.  My  husband  was  bending  over 
me,  and  Roger  and  Mr.  Blackstone  were  both  in  the 
room.  I  could  not  speak,  but  my  husband  understood 
my  questioning  gaze. 

"  Yes,  yes,  my  love,"  he  said  quietly  :  "  she's  all  right 
—  safe  and  sound,  thank  God  !  " 

And  I  did  thank  God. 

Mr.  Blackstone  came  to  the  bedside,  with  a  look  and 
a  smile  that  seemed  to  my  conscience  to  say,  "  I  told  you 
so."  I  held  out  my  hand  to  him,  but  could'only  weep. 
Then  I  remembered  how  we  had  vexed  Roger,  and  called 
him. 

"  Dear  Roger,"  I  said,  "  forgive  me,  and  go  and  tell 
Miss  Clare." 

I  had  some  reason  to  think  this  the  best  amends  I 
could  make  him. 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  he  said.    "  She  will  be  anxious." 

"  And  I  will  go  to  my  sermon,"  said  Mr.  Blackstone, 
with  the  same  quiet  smile. 

They  shook  hands  with  me,  and  went  away.  And 
my  husband  and  I  rejoiced  over  our  first-born. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

ITS    SEQUEL. 

My  darling  was  recovered  neither  through 
Clare's  injunctions  nor  Mr.  Blackstone's  bell-ri 
A  woman  was  walking  steadily  westward,  carryii 
child  asleep  in  her  arras,  when  a  policeman  stopp 
at  Turnham  Green.  She  betrayed  no  fear,  only 
ance,  and  oftered  no  resistance,  only  begged  he 
not  wake  the  child,  or  take  her  from  Iier.  He  b 
them  in  a  cab  to  the  police-station',  whence  t]ie  ch 
sent  home.  As  soon  as  she  arrived,  Sarah  gave 
warm  bath,  and  put  her  to  bed  ;  but  she  scarcely 
her  eyes. 

Jemima  had  run  about  the  streets  till  midnig 
then  fallen  asleep  on  the  doorstep,  where  the  pol 
found  her  when  he  brought  the  child.  For  a  w( 
went  about  like  one  dazed ;  and  the  blunders  sht 
were  marvellous.  Slie  ordered  a  brace  of  cod  fi 
poulterer,  and  a  pound  of  anchovies  at  the  crockei 
One  day  at  dinner,  we  could  not  think  how  tht 
were  so  pulpy,  and  we  got  so  many  bits  of  bone 
mouth  :  she  had  powerfully  beaten  them,  as  if  tl 
been  steaks.  She  sent  up  melted  butter  for  brea( 
and  stuffed  a  hare  with  sausages. 

After  breakfast,  Percivale  walked  to  the  pol 
tion,  to  thank  the  inspector,  pay  what  expenses  h 
incurred,  and  see  the  woman.  I  was  not  well  en 
go  with  him.  My  Marion  is  a  white-faced  thi 
her  eyes  look  much  too  big  for  her  small  face, 
gested  that  he  should  take  Miss  CUire.  As  it  wa 
he  was  fortunate  enough  to  find   her  at   home,  a 


208 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  ■      209 

accompanied  him  willingly,  and  at  once  recognized  the 
•u-oman  as  the  one  she  had  befriended. 

He  told  the  magistrate  he  did  not  wish  to  punish  her, 
hut  that  there  were  certain  circumstances  which  made 
him  desirous  of  detaining  her  until  a  gentleman,  who, 
he  believed,  could  identify  her,  should  arrive.  The 
magistrate  therefore  remanded  her. 

The  next  day  but  one  my  father  came.  When  he 
saw  her,  he  had  little  doubt  she  was  the  same  that  had 
carried  off  Tlieo  ;  but  he  could  not  be  absolutely  cer- 
tain, because  he  had  seen  her  only  by  moonlight.  He 
told  the  magistrate  the  whole  story,  saying,  that,  if  she 
should  prove  the  mother  of  the  child,  he  was  most  anx- 
ious to  try  what  he  could  do  for  her.  The  magistrate 
expressed  grave  doubts  whether  he  would  find  it  possible 
to  befriend  her  to  any  effectual  degree.  My  father  said 
lie  would  try,  if  he  could  but  be  certain  she  was  the 
mother. 

"  If  she  stole  the  child  merely  to  compel  the  restitu- 
tion of  her  own,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  regard  her  conduct 
with  any  abhorrence.  But,  if  she  is  not  the  mother  of 
the  child,  I  must  leave  her  to  the  severity  of  the  law." 

"I  once  discharged  a  woman,"  said  the  magistrate, 
*'  who  had  committed  the  same  offence,  for  I  was  sat- 
isfied she  had  done  so  purely  from  the  desire  to  possess 
the  child." 

"  But  might  not  a  thief  say  he  was  influenced  merely 
by  the  desire  to  add  another  sovereign  to  his  hoard  ?  " 

"  The  greed  of  the  one  is  a  natural  affection  ;  that  of 
the  other  a  vice." 

"But  the  injury  to  the  loser  is  far  greater  in  the  one 
case  than  in  the  other." 

"To  set  that  off,  however,  the  child  is  more  easily  dis- 
covered. Besides,  the  false  appetite  grows  with  indul- 
gence ;   whereas  one  child  would  still  the  natural  one." 

"Then  you  would  allow  her  to  go  on  steaUng  child 
after  child,  until  she  succeeded  in  keeping  one,"  said 
my  father,  laughing. 

"  I  dismissed  her  with  the  warning,  that,  if  ever  she 
did  so  again,  this  would  be  brought  up  against  her,  and 
18* 


210  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

she  would  have  the  severest  punishment  the  Law  could 
inflict.  It  may  be  right  to  pass  a  first  offence,  and 
wrong  to  pass  a  second.  I  tried  to  make  her  measure 
tlie  injury  done  to  tlie  mother,  by  her  own  sorrow  at  los- 
ing the  cliild ;  and  I  think  not  without  effect.  At  all 
events,  it  was  some  years  ago,  and  I  have  not  heard  of 
her  again.'' 

Now  came  in  the  benefit  of  the  kindness  Miss  Clare 
had  shown  the  woman.  I  doubt  if  any  one  else  could 
have  got  the  truth  from  her.  Even  she  found  it  diffi- 
cult ;  for  to  tell  her  that  if  she  was  Theo's  mother  she 
should  not  be  punished,  might  be  only  to  tempt  her  to 
lie.  All  Miss  Clare  could  do  was  to  assure  her  of  the 
kindness  of  every  one  concerned,  and  to  urge  her  to  dis- 
close her  reasons  for  doing  such  a  grievous  wrong  as 
steal  another  woman's  child. 

"  The}''  stole  my  child,"  she  blurted  out  at  last,  when 
the  cruelty  of  the  action  was  pressed  upon  her. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Miss  Clare  :  "you  left  her  to  die  in 
the  cold." 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  wanted  somebody  to  hear 
her,  and  take  her  in.  I  wasn't  far  off,  and  was  just  go- 
ing to  take  her  again,  when  I  saw  a  light,  and  heard 
them  searching  for  her.     Oh,  dear  !     Oh,  dear!  " 

"  Then  how  can  you  say  they  stole  her?  You  would 
have  had  no  child  at  all,  but  for  them.  She  was  nearly 
dead  when  they  found  her.  And  in  return  you  go  and 
steal  their  grandchild  !  " 

"  They  took  her  from  me  afterwards.  They  woiddn't 
let  rue  have  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  I  wanted  to  let 
them  know  what  it  was  to  have  their  child  taken  from 
them." 

"  How  could  they  tell  she  was  j^our  child,  when  you 
stole  her  away  like  a  thief?  It  might,  for  any  thing 
they  knew,  be  some  other  woman  stealing  her,  as  you 
stole  theirs  the  other  day?  What  woubl  have  become 
of  you  if  it  had  been  so  ?  " 

To  this  reasoning  she  made  no  answer. 

"  I  want  my  child;  I  want  my  child,"  she  moaned. 
Then  breaking  out  —  "I  shall  kill  myself  if  I  don't  get 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  211 

my  child  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  lady,  you  don't  know  what 
it  is  to  have  a  child  and  not  have  her !  I  shall  kill  my- 
self if  they  don't  give  me  her  back.  They  can't  say  I 
did  their  child  au}^  harm.  I  was  as  good  to  her  as  if  she 
had  been  my  own." 

"  They  know  that  quite  well,  and  don't  want  to  pun- 
ish you.     Would  you  like  to  see  your  child  ?  " 

She  clasped  her  hands  above  her  head,  fell  on  her 
knees  at  Miss  Clare's  feet,  and  looked  up  in  her  face 
without  uttering  a  word. 

"  I  will  speak  to  Mr.  Walton,"  said  Miss  Clare ;  and 
left  her. 

The  next  morning  she  was  discharged,  at  the  request 
of  my  husband,  who  brouglit  her  home  with  him. 

Sj'mpathy  with  the  mother-passion  in  her  bosom  had 
melted  away  all  my  resentment.  She  was  a  fine  young 
woman,  of  about  five  and  twenty,  though  her  weather- 
browned  complexion  made  her  look  at  first  much  older. 
With  the  help  of  the  servants,  I  persuaded  her  to  have  a 
bath,  during  which  they  removed  her  clothes,  and  sub- 
stituted otliers.  She  objected  to  putting  them  on ; 
seemed  half-frightened  at  them,  as  if  the}^  might  involve 
some  shape  of  bondage,  and  begged  to  have  her  own 
again.  At  last  Jemima,  who,  although  so  sparingly 
provided  with  brains,  is  not  without  genius,  prevailed 
upon  her,  insisting  that  her  little  girl  would  turn  away 
from  her  if  she  wasn't  well  dressed,  for  she  had  been 
used  to  see  ladies  about  her.  With  a  deep  sigh,  she 
yielded;  begging,  however,  to  have  her  old  garments  re- 
stored to  her. 

She  had  brought  with  her  a  small  bundle,  tied  up  ia 
a  cotton  handkerchief;  and  from  it  she  now  took  a 
scarf  of  red  silk,  and  twisted  it  up  with  her  black  hair 
in  a  fashion  I  had  never  seen  before.  In  this  head-dress 
she  had  almost  a  brilliant  look  ;  while  her  carriage  had 
a  certain  dignity  hard  of  association  with  poverty  — 
not  inconsistent,  however,  with  what  I  have  since  learned 
about  the  gypsies.  My  husband  admired  her  even  more 
than  I  did,  and  made  a  very  good  sketch  of  her.  Her 
eyes  were  large  and  dark —  unquestionably  fine  ;  and  if 


212  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

there  was  not  much  of  the  light  of  thought  in  thera, 
they  had  a  certain  wildness  which  in  a  measure  made 
up  for  the  want.  She  had  rather  a  Spanish  tlian  an 
Eastern  look,  I  thought,  with  an  air  of  defiance  that 
prevented  me  from  feeling  at  ease  with  her;  but  in  the 
presence  of  Miss  Clare  she  seemed  humbler,  and  an- 
swered her  questions  more  readily  than  ours.  If  Ethel 
was  in  the  room,  her  eyes  would  be  constantly  wandering 
after  her,  with  a  wistful,  troubled,  eager  look.  Surely, 
the  mother-passion  must  have  infinite  relations  and  des- 
tinies. 

As  I  was  unable  to  leave  home,  my  father  persuaded 
Miss  Clare  to  accompany  him  and  help  him  to  take  charge 
of  her.  I  confess  it  was  a  relief  to  me  when  she  left 
the  house ;  for  though  I  wanted  to  be  as  kind  to  her  as 
I  could,  I  felt  considerable  discomfort  in  her  presence. 

When  Miss  Clare  returned,  the  next  day  but  one,  I 
found  she  had  got  from  her  the  main  points  of  her 
liistory,  fully  justifying  previous  conjectures  of  mj'  fa- 
ther's, founded  on  what  he  knew  of  the  character  and 
customs  of  the  gypsies. 

She  belonged  to  one  of  the  principal  gypoy  families 
in  this  country.  The  fact  that  they  liad  no  settled  liabi- 
tation,  but  lived  in  tents,  like  Abraham  and  Isaac,  had 
nothing  to  do  with  poverty.  The  silver  buttons  on  her 
fatlier's  coat,  were,  she  said,  worth  nearly  twenty 
pounds  ;  and  when  a  friend  of  any  distinction  came  to 
tea  with  them,  they  spread  a  table-cloth  of  fine  linen  on 
the  grass,  and  set  out  upon  it  the  best  of  china,  and  a 
tea-service  of  hall-marked  silver.  Slie  said  her  friends 
—  as  much  as  any  gentleman  in  the  land  —  scorned  steal- 
ing ;  and  affirmed  that  no  real  gypsy  would  "risk  liis 
neck  for  his  belly,"  except  he  were  driven  by  hunger. 
All  her  family  could  read,  she  said,  and  carried  a  big 
Bible  about  with  them. 

One  summer  they  were  encamped  for  several  months 
m  the  neighborhood  of  Edinburgh,  making  horn-spoons 
and  baskets,  and  some  of  tliem  working  in  tin.  There 
they  were  visited  by  a  clergjnnan,  who  talked  and  read 
the  Bible  to  them,  and  prayed  with  them.     But  all  their 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  213 

visitors  were  not  of  the  same  sort  with  him.  One  of 
them  was  a  young  fellow  of  loose  character,  a  clerk  in 
the  city,  who,  attracted  hj  her  appearance,  prevailed 
upon  her  to  meet  him  often.  She  was  not  then  eighteen. 
Any  aberration  from  the  paths  of  modesty  is  exceedingly 
rare  among  the  gypsies,  and  regarded  with  severity;  and 
her  father,  hearing  of  this,  gave  her  a  terrible  punish- 
ment with  the  whip  lie  used  in  driving  his  horses.  In 
terror  of  what  would  follow  when  the  worst  came  to  be 
known,  she  ran  away ;  and,  soon  forsaken  by  lier  so- 
called  lover,  wandered  about,  a  common  vagrant,  until 
her  baby  was  born  —  under  the  stars,  on  a  summer  night, 
in  a  field  of  long  grass. 

For  some  time  she  wandered  up  and  down,  longing  to 
join  some  tribe  of  her  own  people,  but  dreading  un- 
speakably the  disgrace  of  her  motherhood.  At  length, 
having  found  a  home  for  her  child,  she  associated  herself 
with  a  gang  of  gypsies  of  inferior  character,  amongst 
whom  she  had  many  hardships  to  endure.  Things,  how- 
ever, bettered  a  little  after  one  of  their  number  was 
hanged  for  stabbing  a  cousin,  and  her  position  im- 
proved. It  was  not,  however,  any  intention  of  candying 
off  her  child  to  share  her  present  lot,  but  the  urgings  of 
mere  mother-hunger  for  a  sight  of  her,  that  drove  her  to 
the  Hall.  When  she  had  succeeded  in  enticing  her 
out  of  sight  of  the  house,  however,  the  longing  to  pos- 
sess her  grew  fierce ;  and  braving  all  consequences,  or 
rather,  I  presume,  unable  to  weigh  them,  she  did  carry 
her  away.  Foiled  in  this  attempt,  and  seeing  that  her 
chances  of  future  success  in  any  similar  one  were  dimin- 
ished by  it,  she  sought  some  other  plan.  Learning  that 
one  of  the  family  was  married,  and  had  removed  to  Lon- 
don, she  succeeded,  through  gypsy  acquaintances  who 
lodged  occasionally  near  Tottenham  Court  Koad,  in  find- 
ing out  where  we  lived,  and  carried  oif  Ethel  with  the 
vague  intent,  as  we  had  rightly  conjectured,  of  using 
her  as  a  means  for  the  recovery  of  her  own  child. 

Theodora  was  now  about  seven  years  of  age  —  almost 
as  wild  as  ever.  Although  tolerably  obedient,  she  was 
not  nearly  so  much  so  as  the  other  children  had  been 


214  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

at  her  age;  partly,  perhaps,  because  my  father  could  not 
bring  himself  to  use  that  severity  to  the  child  of  other 
people  with  which  he  had  judged  it  proper  to  treat  his 
own. 

Miss  Clare  was  present,  witli  my  fiither  and  the  rest 
of  the  family,  when  the  mother  and  daughter  met. 
They  were  all  more  than  curious  to  see  how  the  child 
would  behave,  and  whether  there  would  be  any  signs  of 
an  instinct  that  drew  her  to  her  parent.  In  this,  how- 
ever, they  were  disappointed. 

It  was  a  fine  warm  forenoon  when  she  came  running 
on  to  the  lawn  where  they  were  assembled,  —  the  gypsy 
mother  with  them. 

"  There  she  is  !  "  said  my  father  to  the  woman.  "  Make 
the  best  of  yourself  you  can." 

Miss  Clare  said  the  poor  creature  turned  very  pale,  but 
jier  eyes  glowed  with  such  a  fire  ! 

With  the  cunning  of  her  race,  she  knew  better  than 
bound  forward  and  eatcli  up  the  child  in  her  arms.  She 
'walked  away  from  the  rest,  and  stood  watching  the  lit- 
tle damsel,  romping  merrily  with  Mr.  Wagtail.  They 
thought  she  recognized  the  dog,  and  was  afraid  of  him. 
She  had  put  on  a  few  silver  ornaments  which  she  had 
either  kept  or  managed  to  procure,  notwithstanding  her 
poverty;  for  both  the  men  and  women  of  her  race  man- 
ifest in  a  strong  degree  that  love  for  barbaric  adornment 
which,  as  well  as  their  other  peculiarities,  points  to  an 
Eastern  origin.  The  glittering  of  these  in  the  sun,  and 
the  glow  of  her  red  scarf  in  her  dark  hair,  along  witii 
the  strangeness  of  her  whole  appearance,  attracted  the 
child,  and  she  approached  to  look  at  her  nearer.  Then 
the  mother  toqk  from  her  pocket  a  large  gilded  ball, 
which  had  probably  been  one  of  the  ornameiits  on  the 
top  of  a  clock,  and  rolled  it  gleaming  golden  along  the 
grass.  Theo  and  Mr.  Wagtail  bounded  after  it  with  a 
shriek  and  a  bark.  Having  examined  it  for  a  moment, 
the  child  threw  it  again  along  the  lawn ;  and  this  time 
the  mother,  lithe  as  a  leopard  and  fleet  as  a  savage, 
joined  in  the  chase,  caught  it  first,  and  again  sent  it 
spiuning  away,  farther  from  t\\&  assembled  groujp.     Once 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  215 

more  all  three  followed  in  swift  pursuit ;  but  this  time 
the  mother  took  care  to  allow  the  child  to  seize  the  treas- 
ure. After  the  sport  had  continued  a  little  while,  what 
seemed  a  general  consultation,  of  mother,  child,  and  dog, 
took  place  over  the  bauble  ;  and  presently  they  saw  that 
Theo  was  eating  something. 

"  I  trust,"  said  my  mother,  ''  she  won't  hurt  the  child 
with  an}^  nasty  stuff." 

"  She  will  not  do  so  wittinglj',"  said  my  father,  "you 
may  be  sure.      Anyhow,  we  must  not  interfere." 

In  a  few  minutes  more  the  mother  approached  them 
with  a  subdued  look  of  triumph,  and  her  eyes  overflow- 
ing with  light,  carrying  the  child  in  her  arms.  Theo 
was  playing  with  some  foreign  coins  which  adorned  her 
hair,  and  with  a  string  of  coral  and  silver  beads  round 
her  neck. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  they  were  left  to  do  much  as 
they  pleased ;  only  every  one  kept  good  watch. 

But  in  the  joy  of  recovering  her  child,  the  mother 
seemed  herself  to  have  gained  a  new  and  childlike  spirit. 
The  more  than  willingness  with  which  she  hastened  to  do 
what,  even  in  respect  of  her  child,  was  requested  of  her, 
as  if  she  fully  acknowledged  the  right  of  authority  in 
those  who  had  been  her  best  friends,  was  charming. 
Whether  this  would  last  when  the  novelty  of  the  new 
experience  had  worn  off,  whether  jealousy  would  not  then 
come  in  for  its  share  in  the  ordering  of  her  conduct,  re- 
mained to  be  shown  ;  but  in  the  mean  time  the  good  in 
her  was  uppermost. 

She  was  allowed  to  spend  a  whole  fortnight  in  making 
friends  with  her  daughter,  before  a  word  was  spoken 
about  the  fciture  ;  the  design  of  my  father  being  through 
the  child  to  win  the  mother.  Certain  jDeople  considered 
him  not  eager  enough  to  convert  the  wicked  :  whatever 
apparent  indifference  he  showed  in  that  direction  arose 
from  his  utter  belief  in  the  guiding  of  God,  and  his 
dread  of  outrunning  his  designs.  He  would  follow  the 
operations  of  the  Spirit. 

"  Your  forced  hot-house  fruits,"  he  would  saj',  "  are 
often  finer  to  look  at  than  those  which  have  waited  for 


216  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

God's  wind  and  weather ;  but  what  are  they  worth  in 
respect  of  all  for  the  sake  of  which  fruit  exists  ?  " 

Until  an  opportunity,  then,  was  thrown  in  his  way,  ho 
would  hold  back  ;  but  when  it  was  clear  to  him  that  he 
had  to  minister,  then  was  he  thoughtful,  watcliful,  in- 
stant, unswerving.  You  might  have  seen  him  during 
this  time,  as  the  letters  of  Connie  informed  me,  often 
standing  for  minutes  together  watching  the  mother  and 
daughter,  and  pondering  in  his  heart  concerning  them. 

Ev^ery  advantage  being  thus  afforded  her,  not  without 
the  stirring  of  some  natural  pangs  in  those  who  had 
hitherto  mothered  the  child,  the  fortnight  had  not 
passed,  before,  to  all  appearance,  the  unknown  mother 
was  with  the  child  the  greatest  favorite  of  all.  And  it 
was  my  father's  expectation,  for  he  was  a  profound  be- 
liever in  blood,  that  the  natural  and  generic  instincts 
of  the  child  would  be  developed  together ;  in  other 
words,  that  as  she  grew  in  what  was  common  to  human- 
ity, she  would  grow  likewise  in  what  belonged  to  her 
individual  origin.  This  was  not  an  altogether  comfort- 
ing expectation  to  those  of  us  who  neither  had  so  much 
faith  as  he,  nor  saw  so  hopefully  the  good  that  lay  in 
every  evil. 

One  twilight,  he  overheard  the  following  talk  between 
them.  When  they  came  near  where  he  sat,  Tlieodora, 
carried  by  her  mother,  and  pulling  at  her  neck  with  her 
arms,  was  saying,  "  Tell  me ;  tell  me ;  tell  me,"  in  the 
tone  of  one  who  would  compel  an  answer  to  a  question 
repeatedly  asked  in  vain. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  ?  "  said  her  mother. 

"  You  know  well  enough.     Tell  me  your  name." 

In  reply,  she  uttered  a  few  words  my  father  did  not 
comprehend,  and  took  to  be  Zingaree.  The  child  shook 
her  petulantly  and  with  violence,  crying,  — 

"  That's  nonsense.  I  don't  know  what  you  say,  and 
I  don't  know  what  to  call  you." 

My  father  had  desired  the  household,  if  possible,  to 
give  no  name  to  the  woman  in  the  child's  hearing. 

"  Call  me  mam,  if  you  like." 

"  But  you're   not  a  lady,  and  I  won't  say  ma'am   to 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  217 

you,"  said  Theo,  rude  as  a  child  will  sometimes  be  when 
least  she  intends  oflfence. 

Her  mother  set  her  down,  and  gave  a  deep  sigh.  Was 
it  only  tliat  the  child's  restlessness  and  roughness  tired 
her?     ^ly  father  thought  otherwise. 

"  Tell  me  ;  tell  me,"  the  child  persisted,  beating  her 
with  her  little  clenched  fist.  "  Take  me  up  again,  and 
tell  me,  or  I  will  make  you." 

My  father  thought  it  time  to  interfere.  He  stepped 
forward.  The  mother  started  with  a  little  cry,  and 
caught  up  the  child. 

"  Theo,"  said  my  father,  "  I  cannot  allow  you  to  be 
rude,  especially  to  one  who  loves  you  more  than  any  one 
else  loves  you." 

The  woman  set  her  down  again,  dropped  on  her  knees, 
and  caught  and  kissed  his  hand. 

The  cliild  stared ;  but  she  stood  in  awe  of  my  father, 

—  perhaps  the  more  that  she  had  none  for  any  one   else, 

—  and,  when  her  mother  lifted  her  once  more,  was  car- 
ried away  in  silence. 

The  difficulty  was  got  over  by  the  child's  being  told 
to  call  her  mother  Nurse. 

My  father  was  now  sufficiently  satisfied  with  imme- 
diate results  to  cany  out  the  remainder  of  his  contingent 
plan,  of  which  my  mother  heartily  approved.  The  gar- 
dener and  his  wife  being  elderly  people,  and  having  no 
family,  therefore  not  requiring  the  whole  of  their  cottage, 
which  was  within  a  short  distance  of  the  house,  could 
spare  a  room,  which  my  mother  got  arranged  for  the 
gypsy;  and  there  she  was  housed,  with  free  access  to 
her  child,  and  the  understanding  that  when  Theo  liked 
to  sleep  with  her,  she  was  at  liberty  to  do  so. 

She  was  always  ready  to  make  herself  useful  ;  but  it 
was  little  she  could  do  for  some  time,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  she  settled  to  any  occupition  at  all  con- 
tinuous. 

Before  long  it  became  evident  that  her  old  habits  were 

working  in  her  and  making  her  restless.     Slie  was  pining 

after  the  liberty  of  her  old  wandering  life,  with  sun  and 

wind,  space  and  change,  all  about  her.     It  was  spring  j 

19 


218  THE-  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

and  the  reviving  life  of  nature  was  rousing  in  her  the 
longing  for  motion  and  room  and  varietj'  engendered  by 
the  roving  centuries  which  had  passed  since  first  her 
ancestors  were  driven  from  their  homes  in  far  Hindostan. 
But  my  father  had  foreseen  the  probability,  and  had 
alreadj^  thought  over  what  could  be  done  for  her  if  the 
wandering  passion  should  revive  too  powerfully,  lie 
reasoned  that  there  was  nothing  bad  in  such  an  impulse, 
—  one  doubtless,  which  would  have  been  felt  in  all  its 
force  by  Abraham  himself,  had  he  quitted  his  tents  and 
gone  to  dwell  in  a  city,  —  however  much  its  indulgence 
might  place  her  at  a  disadvantage  in  the  midst  of  a  set- 
tled social  order.  He  saw,  too,  that  any  attempt  to  co- 
erce it  would  probably  result  in  entire  frustration  ;  that 
the  passion  for  old  forms  of  freedom  would  gather  tenfold 
vigor  in  consequence.  It  would  be  far  better  to  favor  its 
indulgence,  in  the  hope  that  the  love  of  her  child  would, 
like  an  elastic  but  infrangible  cord,  gradually  tame  her 
down  to  a  more  settled  life. 

He  proposed,  therefore,  that  she  should,  as  a  matter 
of  duty,  go  and  visit  her  parents,  and  let  them  know  of 
her  welfare.     She  looked  alarmed. 

"  Your  father  will  show  you  no  unkindness,  I  am  cer- 
tain, after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years,"  he  added. 
"Think  it  over,  and  tell  me  to-morrow  how  you  feel 
about  it.  You  shall  go  by  train  to  Edinburgh,  and  once 
there  you  will  soon  be  able  to  find  them.  Of  course  you 
couldn't  take  the  child  with  you ;  but  she  will  be  safe 
with  us  till  you  come  back." 

The  result  was  that  she  went ;  and  having  found  licr 
people,  and  spent  a  fortnight  with  them,  returned  in  less 
than  a  month.  The  rest  of  the  year  she  remained 
quietly  at  home,  stilling  her  desires  by  frequent  and  long 
rambles  with  her  child,  in  which  Mr.  Wagtail  always 
accompanied  them.  My  father  thought  it  better  to  run 
the  risk  of  her  escaping,  than  force  the  thought  of  it 
upon  her  by  appearing  not  to  trust  her.  But  it  came 
out  that  she  had  a  suspicion  that  the  dog  was  there  to 
prevent,  or  at  least  expose,  any  such  imprudence.  The 
following  spring  she  went  on  a  second  visit  to  her  friends, 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  219 

but  was  back  within  a  week,  and  the  next  year  did  not 
go  at  alh 

Meantime  my  father  did  what  he  could  to  teach  her, 
presenting  every  truth  as  something  it  was  necessary  she 
should  teach  her  child.  With  this  duty,  he  said,  he 
alwaj'S  baited  tlie  hook  with  which  he  fished  for  her ; 
"  or,  to  take  a  figure  from  the  old  hawking  days,  her 
eyas  is  the  lure  with  which  I  would  reclaim  the  hag- 
gard hawk." 

What  will  be  the  final  result,  who  dares  prophesy  ? 
At  my  old  home  she  still  resides  ;  grateful,  and  in  some 
measure  useful,  idolizing,  but  not  altogether  spoiling  her 
child,  who  understands  the  relation  between  them,  and 
now  calls  her  mother. 

Dora  teaches  Theo,  and  the  mother  comes  in  for  what 
share  she  inclines  to  appropriate.  She  does  not  take 
much  to  reading,  but  she  is  fond  of  listening;  and  is  a 
regular  and  devout  attendant  at  public  worship.  Above 
all,  they  have  sufficing  proof  that  her  conscience  is  awake, 
and  that  she  gives  some  heed  to  what  it  says. 

Mr.  Blackstone  was  right  when  he  told  me  that  good 
I  was  unable  to  foresee  would  result  from  the  loss  which 
then  drowned  me  in  despair. 

18* 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

TROUBLES. 

In  the  beo;iiining  of  the  following  year,  the  lady  who 
filled  Miss  Clare's  place  was  married,  and  Miss  Clare 
resumed  the  teaching  of  Judy's  children.  She  was  now 
so  handsomely  paid  for  her  lessons,  that  she  had  reduced 
the  number  of  her  engagements  very  much,  and  had 
more  time  to  give  to  the  plans  in  which  she  labored  with 
Lady  Bernard.  The  latter  would  willingly  have  settled 
such  an  annuity  upon  her  as  would  have  enabled  her  to 
devote  all  her  time  to  this  object ;  but  Miss  Clare  felt 
that  the  earning  of  her  bread  was  one  of  the  natural  ties 
that  bound  her  in  the  bundle  of  social  life;  and  that  in 
what  she  did  of  a  spiritual  kind,  she  must  be  untram- 
melled by  money-relations.  If  she  could  not  do  both,  — ■ 
provide  for  herself  and  assist  others,  — it  would  be  a  dif- 
ferent thing,  she  said;  for  then  it  would  be  clear  that 
Providence  intended  her  to  receive  the  hire  of  the  la- 
borer for  the  necessity  laid  upon  her.  But  what  influ- 
enced her  chiefly  was  the  dread  of  having  any  thing  she 
did  for  her  friends  attributed  to  professional  motives,  in- 
stead of  the  recognition  of  eternal  relations.  Besides, 
as  she  said,  it  would  both  lessen  the  means  at  Lady  Ber- 
nard's disposal,  and  cause  herself  to  feel  bound  to  spend 
all  her  energies  in  that  one  direction;  in  which  case  she 
would  be  deprived  of  the  recreative  influences  of  change 
and  more  polished  society.  In  her  labor,  she  would  yet 
feel  her  freedom,  and  would  not  serve  even  Lady  Ber- 
nard for  money,  except  she  saw  clearlj'^  that  such  was 
the  will  of  the  one  Master.  In  thus  refusing  her  offer, 
she  but  rose  in  her  friend's  estimation. 

In  the  spring,  great  trouble  fell  upon   the  Morleys. 

220 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  221 

One  of  the  children  was  taken  with  scarlet-fever ;  and 
then  another  and  anotlier  was  seized  in  such  rapid  suc- 
cession —  until  five  of  them  were  lying  ill  together  — 
that  there  was  no  time  to  think  of  removing  them. 
Cousin  Judy  would  accept  no  assistance  in  nursing  them, 
beyond  that  of  her  own  maids,  until  her  strength  gave 
way,  and  she  took  the  infection  herself  in  the  form  of 
diphtheria ;  when  she  was  compelled  to  take  to  her  bed, 
in  such  agony  at  the  thought  of  handing  her  children 
over  to  hired  nurses,  that  there  was  great  ground  for 
fearing  her  strength  would  yield. 

She  lay  moaning,  with  her  eyes  shut,  when  a  hand 
was  laid  on  hers,  and  Miss  Clare's  voice  was  in  her  ear. 
She  had  come  to  give  her  usual  lesson  to  one  of  the 
gills  who  had  as  yet  escaped  the  infection  :  for,  while 
she  took  every  precaution,  she  never  turned  aside  from 
her  work  for  any  dread  of  consequences ;  and  when  she 
heard  that  Mrs.  Morley  had  been  taken  ill,  she  walked 
straight  to  her  room. 

"  Go  away  ! "  said  Judy.     "  Do  you  want  to  die  too  ?  " 

"Dear  Mrs.  Morley,"  said  Miss  Clare,  "I  will  just  run 
tome,  and  make  a  few  arrangements,  and  then  come 
back  and  nurse  you." 

"Never  mind  me,"  said  Judj'.  "The  children!  the 
children  !     What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  I  am  quite  able  to  look  after  you  all  —  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  bring  a  3'oung  woman  to  help  me." 

"  You  are  an  angel !  "  said  poor  Judy.  "  But  there  is 
no  occasion  to  bring  any  one  with  you.  My  servants 
ure  quite  competent." 

"  I  must  have  every  thing  in  my  own  hands,"  said 
Miss  Clare ;  "  and  therefore  must  have  some  one  who 
will  do  exactly  as  I  tell  her.  This  girl  has  been  with 
me  now  for  some  time,  and  I  can  depend  upon  her.  Ser- 
vants always  look  down  upon  governesses." 

"  Do  whatever  you  like,  you  blessed  creature,"  said 
Judy.  "  If  any  one  of  my  servants  behaves  improj^erly 
to  you,  or  neglects  your  orders,  she  shall  go  as  soon  as  I 
am  up  again." 

"  I  would  rather  give  them  as  little  opportunity  as  I 
19* 


222  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

can  of  running  the  risk.  If  I  may  bring  this  friend  of 
my  own,  I  shall  soon  have  the  house  under  hospital  reg- 
ulations. But  I  have  been  talking  too  much.  I  miglit 
almost  have  returned  by  this  time.  It  is  a  bad  begin- 
ning if  I  have  hurt  you  already  by  saying  more  than 
was  necessary." 

She  had  hardly  left  the  room  before  Judy  had  fallen 
asleep,  so  much  was  she  relieved  by  the  offer  of  her  ser- 
vices. Ere  she  awoke,  Marion  was  in  a  cab  on  her  way 
back  to  Bolivar  Square,  with  her  friend  and  two  carpet- 
bags. Within  an  hour,  she  had  intrenched  herself  in  a 
spare  bedroom,  had  lighted  a  fire,  got  encumbering  finery 
out  of  the  way,  arranged  all  the  medicines  on  a  chest 
of  drawers,  and  set  the  clock  on  the  mantle-piece  going; 
made  the  round  of  the  patients,  who  were  all  in  adjoin- 
ing rooms,  and  the  round  of  the  house,  to  see  that  the 
disinfectants  were  fresh  and  active,  added  to  their  num- 
ber, and  then  gone  to  await  the  arrival  of  the  medical 
attendant  in  Mrs.  Morley's  room. 

"Dr.  Brand  might  have  been  a  little  more  gracious," 
said  Judy ;  "  but  I  thought  it  J^etter  not  to  interrupt 
him  by  explaining  that  you  were  not  the  piofessional 
nurse  he  took  you  for." 

"  Indeed,  there  was  no  occasion,"  answered  Miss 
Clare.  "I  should  have  told  him  so  myself,  had  it  not 
been  that  I  did  a  nurse's  regular  work  in  St.  George's 
Hospital  for  two  months,  and  have  been  there  for  a  week 
or  so,  several  times  since,  so  that  I  believe  I  have  earned 
the  right  to  be  spoken  to  as  such.  Anyhow,  I  under- 
stood every  word  he  said." 

Meeting  Mr.  Morley  in  the  hall,  the  doctor  advised 
him  not  to  go  near  his  wife,  diphtheria  being  so  infec- 
tious ;  but  comforted  him  with  the  assurance  that  the 
nurse  appeared  an  intelligent  young  person,  who  would 
attend  to  all  his  directions  ;  adding, — 

"I  could  have  wished  sheMiad  been  older;  but  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  illness  about,  and  experienced  nurses 
are  scarce." 

Miss  Clare  was  a  week  in  the  house  before  Mr.  Morlcy 
saw  her,  or  knew  she  was  there.     One  evening  she   ran 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  223 

down  to  the  dining-room,  where  he  sat  over  his  lonely 
glass  of  Madeira,  to  get  some  brandy,  and  went  straight 
to  the  sideboard.  As  she  turned  to  leave  the  room,  he 
recognized  her,  and  said,  in  some  astonishment,  — 

"  You  need  not  trouble  yourself.  Miss  Clare.  Tho 
nurse  can  get  wliat  she  wants  from  Hawkins.  Indeed, 
I  don't  see  "  — 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Morley.  If  you  wish  to  speak  to 
me,  I  will  return  in  a  few  minutes  ;  but  I  have  a  good 
deal  to  attend  to  just  at  this  moment." 

She  left  the  room  ;  and,  as  he  had  said  nothing  m  re- 
ply, did  not  return. 

Two  days  after,  about  the  same  hour,  whether  sus- 
pecting the  fact,  or  for  some  other  reason,  he  requested 
the  butler  to  send  the  nurse  to  him. 

"  The  nurse  from  the  nursery,  sir  ;  or  the  young  person 
as  teaches  the  young  ladies  the  piano?"  asked  Hawkins. 

''  I  mean  the  sick-nurse,"  said  his  master. 

In  a  few  minutes  Miss  Clare  entered  the  dining-room, 
and  approached  Mr.  Morley. 

"  Ho\v  do  you  do.  Miss  Clare  ?  "  he  said  stiffly  ;  for  to 
any  one  in  his  employment  he  was  gracious  only  now 
and  then.  "Allow  me  to  say  that  I  doubt  the  pro- 
priety of  your  being  here  so  much.  You  cannot  fail  to 
carry  the  infection.  I  think  jour  lessons  had  better  be 
postponed  until  all  your  pupils  are  able  to  benefit  by 
them.  I  have  just  sent  for  the  nurse;  and,  —  if  you 
please"  — 

"  Yes.  Hawkins  told  me  you  wanted  me,"  said  Miss 
Clare. 

"  I  did  not  want  you.     He  must  have  mistaken." 

"  I  am  the  nurse,  Mr.  Morley." 

"  Then  I  must  say  it  is  not  with  my  apj^roval,"  he 
returned,  rising  from  his  chair  in  anger.  "1  was  given 
to  understand  that  a  properly-qualified  person  was  in 
charge  of  my  wife  and  family.  This  is  no  ordinary  case, 
where  a  little  coddling  is  all  that  is  wanted." 

"  I  am  perfectly  qualified,  Mr.  Morley." 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  several  times. 

"I  must  sneak  to  Mrs.  Morley  about  this  "  he  said. 


224  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  I  entreat  you  will  not  disturb  her.  She  is  not  so 
well  this  afternoon." 

'"  How  is  this,  Miss  Clare  ?  Pray  explain  to  me  how 
it  is  that  3'ou  come  to  be  taking  a  j)art  in  the  aftairs  of 
the  family  so  very  different  from  that  for  which  Mrs. 
Morley  —  which  —  was  arranged  between  Mrs.  Morley 
and  yourself." 

"  It  is  but  an  illustration  of  the  law  of  supply  and  de- 
mand," answered  Marion.  "  A  nurse  was  wanted  ;  Mrs. 
Morley  had  strong  objections  to  a  hired  nurse,  and  I  was 
very  glad  to  be  able  to  set  her  mind  at  rest." 

"It  was  very  obliging  in  you,  no  doubt,"  he  returned, 
forcing  the  admission  ;  "  but  —  but  "  — 

"  Let  us  leave  it  for  the  present,  if  you  please  ;  for 
while  I  am  nurse,  I  must  mind  mj  business.  Dr.  Brand 
expresses  himself  quite  satisfied  with  me,  so  far  as  we 
have  gone  ;  and  it  is  better  for  the  children,  not  to  men- 
tion Mrs.  Morley,  to  have  some  one  about  them  they  are 
used  to." 

She  left  the  room  without  waiting  further  parley. 

Dr.  Brand,  however,  not  only  set  Mr.  Morley's  mind 
at  rest  as  to  her  efficiency,  but  when  a  terrible  time  of 
anxiety  was  at  length  over,  during  which  one  after  an- 
other, and  especially  Judy  herself,  had  been  in  great 
danger,  assured  him  that,  but  for  the  vigilance  and  in- 
telligence of  Miss  Clare,  joined  to  a  certain  soothing 
influence  which  she  exercised  over  every  one  of  her  pa- 
tients, he  did  not  believe  he  could  have  brought  Mrs. 
Morley  through.  Then,  indeed,  he  changed  his  tone  to 
her,  in  a  measure,  still  addressing  her  as  from  a  height 
of  superiority. 

They  had  recovered  so  far  that  they  were  to  set  out 
the  next  morning  for  Hastings,  when  he  thus  addressed 
her,  having  sent  for  her  once  more  to  the  dining- 
room  :  — 

"  I  hope  you  will  accompany  them.  Miss  Clare,"  he 
said.  "By  this  time  you  must  be  in  no  small  need  of 
a  change  yourself." 

"  The  best  change  for  me  will  be  Lime  Court,"  she 
answered,  laughing. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUCnTER.  225 

"Now,  pray  don't  drive  your  goodness  to  the  verge  of 
absurdit_y,"  lie  said  pleasantly. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  anxious  about  my  friends  there,"  she 
returned.  ''  I  fear  they  have  not  been  getting  on  quite 
so  well  without  me.  A  Bible-woman  and  a  Roman 
Catholic  have  been  quarrelling  dreadfully,  I  hear." 

Mr.  Morley  compressed  his  lips.  It  tvas  annoying  to 
be  so  much  indebted  to  one  who,  from  whatever  motives, 
called  such  people  her  friends. 

"  Oblige  me,  then,"  he  said  loftilj'-,  taking  an  envelope 
from  the  mantle-piece,  and  handing  it  to  her,  '•  by  open- 
icg  that  at  your  leisure." 

"  I  will  open  it  now,  if  jou.  please,"  she  returned. 

It  contained  a  bank-note  for  a  hundred  pounds.  Mr. 
Morley,  though  a  hard  man,  was  not  by  any  means 
stingy.  She  replaced  it  in  the  envelope,  and  laid  it 
again  on  the  chimney-piece. 

*'  You  owe  me  nothing,  Mr.  Morley,"  she  said. 

"  Owe  you  nothing  !  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever 
repay." 

"  Then  don't  try  it,  please.  You  are  very  generous  ; 
but  indeed  I  could  not  accept  it." 

"  You  must  oblige  me.  You  might  take  it  from  we," 
he  added,  almost  pathetically,  as  if  the  bond  was  so  close 
that  money  was  notliing  between  them. 

''  You  are  the  last  —  one  of  the  last  I  could  take 
money  from,  Mr.  Morley." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  think  so  much  of  it,  and  yet  would  look 
down  on  me  the  more  if  I  accepted  it." 

He  bit  his  lip,  rubbed  his  forehead  with  his  hand, 
threw  back  his  head,  and  turned  away  from  her. 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  offend  j'on,"  she  said  ;  '-and, 
believe  me,  there  is  hardly  any  thing  I  value  less  than 
money.  I  have  enough,  and  could  have  plenty  more  if 
I  liked.  I  would  rather  have  your  friendship  than  all 
the  money  you  possess.  But  that  cannot  be,  so  long 
as  "  — 

She  stopped:  she  was  on  the  point  of  going  too  far, 
she  thought. 


226  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  So  long  as  what  ?  "  he  returned  sternly. 

'•  So  long  as  yon  are  a  worshipper  of  Mammon,"  she 
answered  ;  and  left  the  room. 

She  bnrst  out  crying  when  she  came  to  this  point. 
She  had  narrated  the  whole  with  the  air  of  one  making 
a  confession. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  was  very  wrong,"  she  said ;  "  and  if 
so,  then  it  was  very  rude  as  well.  But  something  seemed 
to  force  it  out  of  me.  Just  think  :  there  was  a  generous 
heart,  clogged  up  with  self-importance  and  wealth  !  To 
me,  as  he  stood  there  on  the  hearth-rug,  he  was  a  most 
pitiable  object  —  with  an  impervious  wall  betwixt  him 
and  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !  He  seemed  like  a  man 
in  a  terrible  dream,  from  which  I  Tnust  awake  him  by 
calling  aloud  in  his  ear  —  except  that,  alas  !  the  dream 
was  not  terrible  to  him,  onlj'  to  me !  If  he  had  been 
one  of  my  poor  friends,  guilty  of  some  plain  fault,  I 
should  have  told  him  so  without  compunction ;  and  why 
not,  being  wdiat  he  was?  There  he  stood,  — a  man  of 
estimable  qualities,  of  beneficence,  if  not  bounty  ;  no 
miser,  nor  consciously  unjust ;  yet  a  man  whose  heart  the 
moth  and  rust  were  eating  into  a  sponge!  —  who  went 
to  church  every  Sunday,  and  had  many  friends,  not  one 
of  whom,  not  even  his  own  wife,  would  tell  him  that  he 
was  a  Mammon-worshipper,  and  losing  his  life.  It  may 
have  been  useless,  it  may  have  been  wrong ;  but  I  felt 
driven  to  it  by  bare  human  pity  for  the  misery  I  saw 
before  me." 

"  It  looks  to  me  as  if  you  had  the  message  given  you 
to  give  him,"  I  said. 

"But  —  though  I  don't  know  it — what  if  I  was  an- 
noyed with  him  for  offering  me  that  wretched  hundred 
pounds,  —  in  doing  which  he  was  acting  up  to  the  light 
that  was  in  him  ?  " 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  light  which  is  dark- 
ness, but  I  did  not  say  so.  Strange  tableau,  in  this  our 
would-be  grand  nineteenth  century,  — a  young  and  poor 
woman  prophet-like  rebuking  a  wealthy  London  mer- 
chant on  his  own  hearth-rug,  as  a  worshipper  of  Mam- 
mon !     I  think  slie  was  right ;  not  because  he  was  wrong, 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  227 

but  because,  as  I  firmly  believe,  she  ditl  it  from  no  per- 
sonal motives  whatever,  although  in  her  modesty  she 
doubted  herself.  I  believe  it  was  from  pure  regard  for 
the  man  and  for  the  truth,  urging  her  to  an  irrepressible 
utterance.  If  so,  should  we  not  say  that  she  spoke  bji 
the  Spirit  ?  Only  I  shudder  to  think  what  utterance 
might,  with  an  equal  outward  show,  be  attributed  to  the 
same  Spirit.  Well,  to  his  own  master  every  one  stand- 
eth  or  falleth  ;  whether  an  old  prophet  who,  with  a  lie 
in  his  right  hand,  entraps  an  honorable  guest,  or  a  young 
prophet  who,  with  repentance  in  his  heart,  walks  calmly 
into  the  jaws  of  the  waiting  lion.  ^ 

And  no  one  can  tell  what  effects  the  words  may  have 
had  upon  him.  I  do  not  believe  he  ever  mentioned 
the  circumstance  to  his  wife.  At  all  events,  there  was 
no  change  in  her  manner  to  Miss  Clare.  Indeed,  I 
could  not  help  fancying  tlnit  a  little  halo  of  quiet  rever- 
ence now  encircled  the  love  in  every  look  she  cast  upon 
her. 

She  firmly  believed  that  Marion  had  saved  her  life, 
and  that  of  more  than  one  of  her  children.  Nothing, 
she  said,  could  equal  the  quietness  and  tenderness  and 
tirelessness  of  her  nursing.  She  was  never  flurried,  never 
impatient,  and  never  frightened.  Even  when  the  tears 
would  be  flowing  down  her  face,  the  light  never  left  her 
eyes  nor  the  music  her  voice ;  and  when  they  were  all 
getting  better,  and  she  had  the  nursery  piano  brought 
out  on  the  landing  in  the  middle  of  the  sick-rooms,  and 
there  played  and  sung  to  tliem,  it  was,  she  said,  like 
tlie  voice  of  an  angel,  come  fresh  to  the  earth,  with  the 
same  old  news  of  peace  and  good-wiil.  When  the  chil- 
dren —  this  I  had  from  the  friend  she  brought  with  her 
—  were  tossing  in  the  fever,  and  talking  of  strange  and 
frightful  things  they  saw,  one  woi'd.from  her  would  quiet 
them;  and  her  gentle,  firm  command  was  alwa3's  suffi- 
cient to  make  the  most  fastidious  and  rebellious  take  his 
medicine. 

1  See  the  Sermons  of  the  Rev.  Henry  Whitehead,  vicar  of  St.  John's, 
Limchousc;  as  remarkable  for  the  profundity  of  their  insight  as  for  Ihe  no- 
ble soverity  of  their  literary  mo(it■Ulu^^  —  G.ll.D. 


228  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

She  came  out  of  it  very  pale,  and  a  good  deal  worn. 
But  the  day  they  set  off  ibr  Hastings,  she  returned  to 
Lime  Court.  The  next  day  she  resumed  her  lessons, 
and  soon  recovered  her  usual  appearance.  A  change  of 
work,  she  always  said,  was  the  best  restorative.  But  he- 
fore  a  month  was  over  I  succeeded  in  persuading  her  to 
accept  my  mother's  invitation  to  spend  a  week  at  th(i 
Hall ;  and  from  this  visit  she  returned  quite  invigorated. 
Connie,  whom  she  went  to  see,  —  for  by  this  time  she 
was  married  to  Mr.  Turner, — was  especially  delighted 
with  her  delight  in  the  simplicities  of  nature.  Born 
and  bred  in  the  closest  town-environment,  she  had  3'et  a 
sensitiveness  to  all  that  made  the  country  so  dear  to  us 
who  were  born  in  it,  which  Connie  said  surpassed  oux'S, 
and  gave  her  special  satisfaction  as  proving  that  mj'-  oft 
recurring  dread  lest  such  feelings  might  but  be  the  result 
of  childish  associations  was  groundless,  and  that  they 
were  essential  to  the  human  nature,  and  so  felt  by  God 
himself.  Driving  along  in  the  pony-carriage,  —  for  Con- 
nie is  not  able  to  walk  mtich,  although  she  is  well  enough 
to  enjoy  life  thoroughly, — Marion  would  remark  upon 
ten  things  in  a  morning,  that  my  sister  had  never  ob- 
served. The  various  effects  of  light  and  shade,  and  the 
variety  of  feeling  they  caused,  especially  interested  her. 
She  would  spy  out  a  lurking  sunbeam,  as  another  would 
find  a  hidden  flower.  It  seemed  as  if  not  a  glitter  in 
its  nest  of  gloom  could  escape  lier.  She  would  leave  the 
carriage,  and  make  a  long  round  through  the  fields  or 
woods,  and,  when  they  met  at  the  appointed  spot,  would 
have  her  hands  full  not  of  flowers  only,  but  of  leaves  and 
grasses  and  weedy  things,  showing  the  deepest  interest 
in  such  lowly  forms  as  few  would  notice  except  fiom  a 
scientific  knowledge,  of  which  she  had  none  :  it  was  the 
thing  itself —  its  look  and  its  home  —  that  drew  lier  at- 
tention. I  cannot  help  thinking  that  this  insight  was 
prof(Hindly  one  with  her  interest  in  the  corresponding 
regions  of  human  life  and  circumstance. 


^poiif 


•so 


iisuaiiuii 


2HI  ao  ^<^. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

MISS    CLARE   AMONGST   HEK   FRIENDS. 

I  MUST  give  an  instance  of  the  way  in  which  Marion 
—  I  am  tired  of  calling  her  3Iiss  Glare,  and  about  thia 
time  I  began  to  drop  it  —  exercised  her  influence  ovei 
her  friends.  I  trust  the  episode,  in  a  story  so  fragmen- 
tary as  mine,  made  up  of  pieces  only  of  a  quiet  and  or- 
dinary life,  will  not  seem  unsuitable.  How  I  wish  I 
could  give  it  you  as  she  told  it  to  me  !  so  graphic  was  het 
narrative,  and  so  true  to  the  forms  of  speech  amongst 
the  London  poor.  I  must  do  what  I  can,  well  assured 
it  must  come  far  short  of  the  original  representation. 

One  evening,  as  she  was  walking  up  to  her  attic,  she 
heard  a  noise  in  one  of  the  rooms,  followed  by  a  sound 
of  weeping.  It  was  occupied  by  a  journeyman  house- 
painter  and  his  wife,  who  had  been  married  several  years, 
but  whose  only  child  had  died  about  six  months  before, 
since  which  loss  things  had  not  been  going  on  so  well 
between  them.  Some  natures  cannot  bear  sorrow :  it 
makes  them  irritable,  and,  instead  of  drawing  them 
closer  to  their  own,  tends  to  isolate  them.  When  she 
entered,  she  found  the  woman  crying,  and  the  man  in  a 
lurid  sulk. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  no  doubt  in  hei 
usual  cheerful  tone. 

"  I  little  thought  it  would  come  to  this  when  I  married 
him,"  sobbed  the  woman,  while  the  man  remained  mo- 
tionless and  speechless  on  his  chair,  with  his  legs 
stretched  out  at  full  length  before  him. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  about  it?  There  may 
be  some  mistake,  you  know." 

"  There  ain't  no  mistake  in  that,"  said  the  woman, 

20  229 


230  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

removing  the  apron  she  had  heen  holding  to  her  eyes, 
and  turning  a  cheek  towards  Marion,  upon  which  the 
marks  of  an  open-handed  blow  were  visible  enough.  "  I 
didn't  marry  him  to  be  knocked  a.bout  like  that." 

"She  calls  that  knocking  about,  do  she?"  growled 
*i\e  husband  "  What  did  she  go  for  to  throw  her 
cotton  gownd  in  my  teeth  for,  as  if  it  was  my  blame  she 
vvarn't  in  silks  and  satins  ?  " 

After  a  good  deal  of  questioning  on  her  paft,  and  con- 
fused and  recriminative  statement  on  theirs,  Marion 
made  out  the  following  as  the  facts  of  the  case :  — 

For  the  first  time  since  they  were  married,  the  wife 
had  had  an  invitation  to  spend  the  evening  with  some 
female  friends.  The  party  had  taken  place  the  night 
before ;  and  although  she  had  returned  in  ill-humor,  it 
had  not  broken  out  until  just  as  Marion  entered  the 
house.  Tbe  cause  was  this:  none  of  the  guests  were  in 
a  station  much  superior  to  her  own,  yet  she  found  her- 
self the  only  one  who  had  not  a  silk  dress  :  hers  was  a 
print,  and  shabby.  Now,  when  she  was  married,  she 
had  a  silk  dress,  of  which  she  said  her  husband  had  been 
proud  enough  when  they  were  walking  together.  But 
when  she  saw  the  last  of  it,  she  saw  the  last  of  its  sort, 
for  never  another  had  he  given  her  to  her  back  ;  and  she 
didn't  marry  him  to  come  down  in  the  world  —  that  she 
didn't ! 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Marion.  "  You  married  him 
because  you  loved  him,  and  thought  him  the  finest  fel- 
low you  knew." 

"  And  so  he  was  then,  grannie.  But  just  look  at  him 
now ! " 

The  man  moved  uneasily,  but  without  bending  his 
outstretched  legs.  The  fact  was,  that  since  the  death  of 
the  child  he  had  so  far  taken  to  drink  that  he  was  not 
unfrequently  the  worse  for  it ;  which  had  been  a  rare 
occurrence  before. 

"  It  ain't  my  fault,"  he  said,  "  when  work  ain't  a- 
goin,'  if  I  don't  dress  her  like  a  duchess.  I'm  as  proud 
to  see  my  wife  rigged  out  as  e'er  a  man  on  'em ;  and 
that  she  know !  and  when  she  cast  the  contrairy  up  to 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  231 

me,  I'm  blowed  if  I  could  keep  my  hands  oif  on  her. 
She  ain't  the  woman  I  took  her  for,  miss.  She  ^ave  a 
temper ! " 

''  I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  Marion.  ''  Temper  is  a 
troublesome  thing  with  all  of  us,  and  makes  us  do  things 
we're  sorry  for  afterwards.  You^xq  sorry  for  striking 
her  —  ain't  you,  now  ?  " 

There  was  no  response.  Around  the  sullen  heart 
silence  closed  again.  Doubtless  he  would  have  given 
much  to  obliterate  the  fact,  but  he  would  not  confess 
that  he  had  been  wrong.  We  are  so  stupid,  that  confes- 
sion seems  to  us  to  fix  the  wrong  upon  us,  instead  of 
throwing  it,  as  it  does,  into  the  depths  of  the  eternal  sea. 

"  I  may  have  my  temper,"  said  the  woman,  a  little 
mollified  at  finding,  as  she  thought,  that  Miss  Clare  took 
her  part;  "but  here  am  I,  slaving  from  morning  to 
night  to  make  both  ends  meet,  and  goin'  out  every  job 
I  can  get  a-washin'  or  a-charin',  and  never  'avin'  a  bit 
of  fun  from  year's  end  to  year's  end,  and  him  off  to  his 
club,  as  he  calls  it !  —  an'  it's  a  club  he's  like  to  blow 
out  my  brains  with  some  night,  when  he  comes  home  in 
a  drunken  fit ;  for  it's  worse  and  worse  he'll  get,  miss, 
like  the  rest  on  'em,  till  no  woman  could  be  proud,  as 
once  I  was,  to  call  him  hers.  And  when  I  do  go  out  to 
tea  for  once  in  a  way,  to  be  jeered  at  by  them  as  is  no 
better  nor  no  worse  'n  myself,  acause  I  ain't  got  a  hus- 
band as  cares  enough  for  me  to  dress  me  decent !  —  that 
do  stick  i'  my  gizzard.  I  do  dearly  love  to  have  neigh- 
bors think  my  husband  care  a  bit  about  me,  let-a-be  'at 
he  don't,  one  hair;  and  when  he  send  me  out  like 
that "  — 

Here  she  broke  down  afresh. 

''  Why  didn't  ye  stop  at  home  then  ?  I  didn't  tell  ye 
to  go,"  he  said  fiercely,  calling  her  a  coarse  name. 

"  Richard,"  said  Marion,  "  such  words  are  not  fit  for 
me  to  hear,  still  less  for  j^our  own  wife." 

"  Oh !  never  mind  me  :  I'm  used  to  sich,"  said  the 
woman  spitefully. 

"  It's  a  lie,"  roared  the  man  :  "  I  never  named  sich 
a  word  to  ye  afore.     It  do  make  me  mad  to  hear  ye.     I 


232  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

drink  the  clothes  off  your  back,  do  I  ?  If  I  hed  the 
money,  ye  might  go  in  velvet  and  lace  for  aught  I 
cared ! " 

"  She.  would  care  little  to  go  in  gold  and  diamonds,  if 
you  didn't  care  to  see  her  in  them,"  said  Marion. 

At  this  the  woman  burst  into  fresh  tears,  and  the  man 
put  on  a  face  of  contempt, — the  worst  sign,  Marion 
said,  she  had  yet  seen  in  him,  not  excepting  the  blow ; 
for  to  despise  is  worse  than  to  strike. 

I  can't  help  stopping  my  story  here  to  put  in  a  reflec- 
tion that  forces  itself  upon  me.  Many  a  man  would  re- 
gard with  disgust  the  idea  of  striking  his  wife,  who  will 
yet  cherish  against  her  an  aversion  which  is  infinitely 
worse.  The  working-man  who  strikes  his  wife,  but  is 
sorry  for  it,  and  tries  to  make  amends  by  being  more 
tender  after  it,  a  result  which  many  a  woman  will  con- 
sider cheap  at  the  price  of  a  blow  endured,  —  is  an  im- 
measurably superior  husband  to  the  gentleman  who 
shows  his  wife  the  most  absolute  politeness,  but  uses 
that  very  politeness  as  a  breastwork  to  fortify  himself  in 
his  disregard  and  contempt. 

Marion  saw  that  while  the  tides  ran  thus  high,  noth- 
ing could  be  done ;  certainly,  at  least,  in  the  way  of  ar- 
gument. Whether  the  man  had  been  drinking  she 
could  not  tell,  but  suspected  that  must  have  a  share  in 
the  evil  of  his  mood.  She  went  up  to  him,  laid  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said,  — 

"  You're  out  of  sorts,  Richard.  Come  and  have  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  I  will  sing  to  you." 

"  I  don't  want  no  tea." 

"You're  fond  of  the  piano,  though.  And  you  like  to 
hejir  me  sing,  don't  you?" 

"  Well,  I  do,"  he  muttered,  as  if  the  admission  were 
forced  from  him. 

"  Come  with  me,  then." 

He  dragged  himself  up  from  his  chair,  and  was  about 
to  follow  her. 

"  You  ain't  going  to  take  him  from  me,  grannie,  after 
he's  been  and  struck  me  ?  "  interposed  his  wife,  in  a  tone 
half  pathetic,  half  injured. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGnTER.  233 

"Come  after  us  in  a  few  minutes,"  said  Marion,  in  a 
low  voice,  and  led  the  way  from  tlie  room. 

Quiet  as  a  lamb  Richard  followed  lier  up  stairs.  She 
made  him  sit  in  the  easy-chair,  and  began  with  a  low, 
plaintive  song,  which  she  followed  with  other  songs  and 
music  of  a  similar  character.  He  neither  heard  nor  saw 
his  wife  enter,  and  both  sat  for  about  twenty  minutes 
without  a  word  spoken.  Then  Marion  made  a  pause, 
and  the  wife  rose  and  approached  her  husband.  He  was 
fast  asleep. 

•' Don't  wake  him,"  said  Marion  ;  "let  him  have  his 
sleep  out.  You  go  down  and  get  the  place  tidy,  and  a 
nice  bit  of  supper  for  him  —  if  you  can." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  he  brought  me  home  his  week's  wages  this 
very  night." 

"The  whole?" 

"  Yes,  grannie  " 

"  Then  weren't  you  too  hard  upon  him  ?  Just  think  : 
he  had  been  trying  to  behave  himself,  and  had  got  the 
better  of  the  public-liouse  for  once,  and  come  home 
fancying  you'd  be  so  pleased  to  see  him  ;  and  you  "  — 

"  He'd  been  drinking,"  interrupted  Eliza.  "  Only  he 
said  as  how  it  was  but  a  pot  of  beer  he'd  won  in  a  wager 
from  a  mate  of  his." 

"  Well,  if,  after  that  beginning,  he  yet  brought  you 
home  his  money,  he  ought  to  have  had  another  kind  of 
reception.  To  think  of  the  wife  of  a  poor  man  making 
such  a  fuss  about  a  silk  dress  !  Why,  Eliza,  I  never  had 
a  silk  dress  in  my  life  ;  and  I  don't  think  I  ever  shall." 

"  Laws,  grannie  !  who'd  ha'  thought  that  now  !" 

"  You  see  I  have  other  uses  for  my  money  than  buy- 
ing things  for  show." 

"  That  you  do,  grannie  !  But  you  see,"  she  added, 
somewhat  inconsequently,  "  we  ain't  got  no  child,  and 
Dick  he  take  it  ill  of  me,  and  don't  care  to  save  his 
money  ;  so  he  never  takes  me  out  nowlieres,  and  I  do 
be  so  tired  o'  stopping  indoors,  every  day  and  all  day 
long,  that  it  turns  me  sour,  I  do  believe.  T  didn't  use 
to  be  cross-grained,  miss.  But,  laws!  I  feels  now  as  if 
I'd  let  him  knock  me  about  ever  so,  if  only  he  wouldn't 

20» 


234  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

say  as  how  it  was  nothing  to  him  if  I  was  dressed  ever 
so  fine." 

"  You  run  and  get  his  supper." 

Eliza  went ;  and  Marion,  sitting  down  again  to  her 
instrument,  improvised  for  an  hour.  Next  to  lier  Kew 
Testament,  this  was  her  greatest  comfort.  She  sung  and 
pra^yed  both  in  one  then,  and  nobody  but  God  heard 
any  thing  but  the  piano.  Nor  did  it  impede  the  flow  of 
her  best  thoughts,  that  in  a  chair  beside  her  slumbered 
a  weary  man,  the  waves  of  whose  evil  passions  she  had 
stilled,  and  the  sting  of  whose  disappointments  she  had 
soothed,  with  the  sweet  airs  and  concords  of  her  own 
spirit.  Who  could  say  what  tender  influences  might  not 
be  stealing  over  him,  borne  on  the  fair  sounds?  for  even 
the  formless  and  the  void  was  roused  into  life  and  joy 
by  the  wind  that  roamed  over  the  face  of  its  deep.  No 
humanity  jarred  with  hers.  In  the  presence  of  the 
most  degraded,  she  felt  God  there.  A  face,  even  if  be- 
sotted, was  a  face,  only  in  virtue  of  being  in  the  image 
of  God.  That  a  man  was  a  man  at  all,  must  be  because 
he  was  God's.  And  this  man  was  far  indeed  from  being 
of  the  worst.  With  him  beside  her,  she  could  pray  with 
most  of  the  good  of  having  the  door  of  her  closet  shut, 
and  some  of  the  good  of  the  gathering  together  as  well. 
Thus  was  love,  as  ever,  the  assimilator  of  the  foreign, 
the  harmonizer  of  the  unlike;  the  builder  of  the  temple 
in  the  desert,  and  of  the  chamber  in  the  market-place. 

As  she  sat  and  discoursed  with  herself,  she  perceived 
that  the  woman  was  as  certainly  suffering  from  ennui  as 
any  fine  lady  in  Mayfair. 

"Have  you  ever  been  to  the  National  Gallery, 
Kichard?"  she  asked,  without  turning  her  head,  the 
moment  she  heard  him  move. 

"No,  grannie,"  he  answered  with  a  yawn.  "DonV 
most  know  what  sort  of  a  place  it  be  now.  Waxwork, 
ain't  it?" 

"No.  It's  a  great  place  full  of  pictures,  many  of 
them  hundreds  of  years  old.  They're  taken  care  of  by 
the  Government,  just  for  people  to  go  and  look  at. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  and  see  them  some  day  ?  " 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  235 

"  Donno  as  I  should  much." 

"  If  I  were  to  go  with  you,  now,  and  explain  some  of 
them  to  you  ?  I  want  you  to  take  your  wife  and  me 
out  for  a  holida3^  You  can't  think,  3'ou  who  go  out  to 
3^our  work  every  day,  how  tiresome  it  is  to  be  in  the 
house  from  morning  to  night,  especially  at  this  time  of 
the  year,  when  the  sun's  shining,  and  the  very  sparrows 
tTying  to  sing  !  " 

"  She  may  go  out  when  she  please,  grannie.  I  ain't 
no  tyi-ant." 

"  But  she  doesn't  care  to  go  without  you.  You 
wouldn't  have  her  like  one  of  those  slatternly  women  you 
see  standing  at  the  corners,  with  their  fists  in  their  sides 
and  their  elbows  sticking  out,  ready  to  talk  to  anybody 
that  comes  in  the  way." 

"  My  wife  was  never  none  o'  sich,  grannie.  I  knows 
her  as  well's  e'er  a  one,  though  she  do  'ave  a  temper  of 
her  own." 

At  this  moment  Eliza  appeared  in  the  door-way,  say- 
ing, — _ 

"  Will  ye  come  to  yer  supper,  Dick  ?  I  ha'  got  a  slice 
o'  ham  an'  a  hot  tater  for  ye.     Come  along." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  mind — jest  to  please  you, 
Liza.  I  believe  I  ha'  been  asleep  in  grannie's  cheer 
there,  her  a  plaj-in'  an'  a  singin',  I  make  no  doubt,  like  a 
werry  nightingerl,  bless  her,  an'  me  a  snorin'  all  to  my- 
self, like  a  runaway  locomotive !  Won't  you  come  and 
liave  a  slice  o'  the  'am,  an'  a  tater,  grannie  ?  The 
more  you  ate,  the  less  we'd  grudge  it." 

"  I'm  sure  0'  that,"  chimed  in  Eliza.  "  Do  now,  gran- 
nie ;  please  do." 

"  I  will,  with  pleasure,"  said  Marion  ;  and  they  went 
down  together. 

Eliza  had  got  the  table  set  out  nicely,  with  a  foaming 
jug  of  porter  beside  the  ham  and  potatoes.  Before  they 
had  finished,  Marion  had  persuaded  Richard  to  take  his 
wife  and  her  to  the  iSlational  Gallery,  the  next  day  but 
one,  which,  fortunately  for  her  purpose,  was  Whit  Mon- 
day, a  day  whereon  Richard,  who  was  from  the  north 
always  took  a  holiday. 


236  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

At  tlie  National  Gallery,  the  house-painter,  in  virtue 
of  his  craft,  claimed  the  exercise  of  criticism ;  and  his 
remarks  were  amusing  enough.  He  had  more  than  once 
painted  a  sign-hoard  for  a  country  inn,  which  fact 
formed  a  bridge  between  the  covering  of  square  yards 
with  color  and  the  painting  of  pictures ;  and  he  nat- 
urally used  the  vantage-ground  thus  gained  to  enhance 
his  importance  with  his  wife  and  Miss  Clare.  He  was 
rather  a  clever  fellow  too,  though  as  little  educated  in 
any  other  direction  than  that  of  his  calling  as  might 
well  be. 

All  the  woman  seemed  to  care  about  in  the  pictures 
was  this  or  that  something  which  reminded  her,  often 
remotely  enough  I  dare  say,  of  her  former  life  in  the 
country.  Towards  the  close  of  their  visit,  they  ap- 
proached a  picture  —  one  of  Hobbima's,  I  think  — 
which  at  once  riveted  her  attention. 

"Look,  look,  Dick!"  she  cried.  "There's  just  such 
a  cart  as  my  father  used  to  drive  to  the  town  in. 
Farmer  White  always  sent  him  when  the  mistress  wanted 
any  thing  and  he  didn't  care  to  go  hisself.  And,  O 
Dick  !  there's  the  very  moral  of  the  cottage  we  lived  in  ! 
Ain't  it  a  love,  now  ?  " 

"Nice  enough,"  Dick  replied.  "Butitwarn't  there 
I  seed  you,  Liza.  It  wur  at  the  big  house  where  you 
was  housemaid,  you  know.  That'll  be  it,  I  supjiose,  — 
away  there  like,  over  the  trees." 

They  turned  and  looked  at  each   other,  and  Marion 
turned  away.     When  she  looked  again,  they  were  once* 
more  gazing  at  the  picture,  but  close  together,  and  hand 
in  hand,  like  two  children. 

As  they  went  home  in  the  omnibus,  the  two  averred 
they  had  never  spent  a  happier  holiday  in  their  lives; 
and  from  that  day  to  this  no  sign  of  their  quarrelling 
has  come  to  Marion's  knowledge.  They  are  not  only 
her  regular  attendants  on  Saturday  evenings,  but  on 
Sunday  evenings  as  well,  when  she  holds  a  sort  of  con- 
versation-sermon with  her  friends. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

MR.     MORLET. 

As  soon  as  ray  cousin  Judy  returned  from  Hastings,  I 
called  to  see  her,  and  found  them  all  restored,  except 
Amy,  a  child  of  between  eight  and  nine.  There  was 
nothing  very  definite  the  matter  with  her,  but  she  was 
white  and  thin,  and  looked  wistful;  the  blue  of  her  eyes 
had  grown  pale,  and  her  fair  locks  had  nearly  lost  the 
curl  which  had  so  well  suited  her  rosy  cheeks.  She  had 
been  her  fatlier's  pride  for  her  looks,  and  her  mother's 
for  her  saj^ings,  —  at  once  odd  and  simple.  Judy  that 
morning  reminded  me  how,  one  night,  when  she  was 
about  three  years  old,  some  time  after  she  had  gone  to 
bed,  she  had  called  her  nurse,  and  insisted  on  her  moth- 
er's coming.  Judy  went,  prepared  to  find  her  feverish  ; 
for  there  had  been  jam-making  that  day,  and  she  feared 
she  had  been  having  more  than  the  portion  which  on 
such  an  occasion  fell  to  her  share.  When  she  reached 
the  nursery.  Amy  begged  to  be  taken  up  that  she  might 
say  her  prayers  over  again.  Her  mother  objected;  but 
.the  child  insisting,  in  that  pretty,  petulant  way  which 
so  pleased  her  father,  she  yielded,  thinking  she  must  have 
omitted  some  clause  in  her  prayers,  and  be  therefore 
troubled  in  her  conscience.  Amy  accordingly  kneeled 
by  the  bedside  in  her  night-gown,  and,  having  gone 
over  all  her  petitions  from  beginning  to  end,  paused  a 
moment  before  the  final  word,  and  inserted  the  follow- 
ing special  and  peculiar  request :  "  And,  p'ease  God,  give 
me  some  more  jam  to-morrow-day,  for  ever  and  ever. 
Amen."  % 

I  remember  my  father  being  quite  troubled  when  he 
heard  that  the  child  had  been  rebuked  for  offering  what 

237 


238  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

was  prol)ably  her  very  first  genuine  prayer.  The  re*- 
buke,  however,  had  little  eiFect  on  the  equanimity  of  the 
petitioner,  for  she  was  fast  asleep  a  moment  after  it. 

"  There  is  one  thing  that  puzzles  and  annoys  me," 
said  Judy.  "  I  can't  think  what  it  means.  My  husband 
tells  me  that  Miss  Clare  was  so  rude  to  him,  the  day  be- 
fore we  left  for  Hastings,  that  he  would  rather  not  be 
aware  of  it  any  time  she  is  in  the  house.  Those  were 
his  very  words.  '  I  will  not  interfere  with  your  doing 
as  you  think  proper,'  he  said,  '  seeing  you  consider  your- 
self under  such  obligation  to  her ;  and  I  should  be  sorry 
to  deprive  her  of  the  advantage  of  giving  lessons  in  a 
house  like  this ;  but  I  wish  you  to  be  careful  that  the 
girls  do  not  copy  her  manners.  She  has  not  by  any 
means  escaped  the  influence  of  the  company  she  keeps.' 
I  was  utterly  astonished,  you  may  well  think ;  but  I 
could  get  no  further  explanation  from  him.  He  only 
said  that  when  I  wished  to  have  her  society  of  an  even- 
ing, I  must  let  him  know,  because  he  would  then  dine 
at  his  club.  Not  knowing  the  grounds  of  his  offence, 
there  was  little  other  argument  I  could  use  than  the  re- 
iteration of  my  certainty  that  he  must  have  misunder- 
stood her.  '  Not  in  the  least,'  he  said.  '  I  have  no 
doubt  she  is  to  you  every  thing  amiable  ;  but  she  has 
taken  some  unaccountable  aversion  to  me,  and  loses  no 
opportunity  of  showing  it.  And  I  doiiH  think  I  deserve 
it.'  I  told  him  I  was  so  sure  he  did  not  deserve  it,  that 
I  must  believe  there  was  some  mistake.  But  he  only 
shook  his  head  and  raised  his  newspaper.  You  must 
help  me,  little  coz." 

"  How  am  I  to  help  you,  Judy  dear  ? "  I  returned. 
"  I  can't  interfere  between  husband  and  wife,  you  know. 
If  I  dared  such  a  thing,  he  would  quarrel  with  me  too 
—  and  rightl}'." 

"  No,  no,"  she  returned,  laughing :  "  I  don't  want  your 
intercession.  I  only  want  you  to  find  out  from  Miss 
Clare  whether  she  knows  how  she  has  so  mortally  of- 
fended my  husbaiid.  I  believe  she  knows  nothing  about 
it.  She  has  a  rather  abrupt  manner  sometimes,  you 
know ;  but  then  my  husband  is  not  so  silly  as  to  have 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  239 

taken   such   deep   offence  at   that.      Help   me,  now — • 
there's  a  dear  !  " 

I  promised  I  would,  and  hence  came  the  story  I  have 
already  given.  But  Marion  was  so  distressed  at  the 
result  of  her  words,  and  so  anxious  that  Judy  should  not 
be  hurt,  that  she  begged  me,  if  I  could  manage  it  with- 
out a  breach  of  verity,  to  avoid  disclosing  the  matter ; 
especially  seeing  Mr.  Morley  himself  judged  it  too  hein- 
ous to  impart  to  his  wife. 

How  to  manage  it  I  could  not  think.  But  at  length  we 
arranged  it  between  us.  I  told  Judy  that  Marion  con- 
fessed to  having  said  something  which  had  offended  Mr. 
Morley ;  that  she  was  very  sovvy,  and  hoped  she  need 
not  say  that  such  had  not  been  her  intention,  but  that, 
as  Mr.  Morley  evidently  preferred  what  had  passed  be- 
tween them  to  remain  unmentioned,  to  disclose  it  would 
be  merely  to  swell  the  mischief.  It  would  be  better  for 
them  all,  she  requested  me  to  say,  that  she  should  give 
up  her  lessons  for  the  present ;  and  therefore  she  hoped 
Mrs.  Morley  would  excuse  her.  When  I  gave  the  mes- 
sage, Judy  cried,  and  said  nothing.  When  the  children 
heard  that  Marion  was  not  coming  for  a  while.  Amy 
cried,  the  other  girls  looked  very  grave,  and  the  boys 
protested. 

I  have  already  mentioned  that  the  fault  I  most  dis- 
liked in  those  children  was  their  incapacity  for  being 
petted.  Something  of  it  still  remains ;  but  of  late  I 
have  remarked  a  considerable  improvement  in  this 
respect.  They  have  not  only  grown  in  kindness,  but  in 
the  gift  of  receiving  kindness.  I  cannot  but  attribute 
this,  in  chief  measure,  to  their  illness  and  the  lovely 
nursing  of  Marion.  They  do  not  yet  go  to  their  mother 
for  petting,  and  from  myself  will  only  endure  it ;  but 
they  are  eager  after  such  crumbs  as  Marion,  by  no  means 
lavish  of  it,  will  vouchsafe  them. 

Judy  insisted  that  I  should  let  Mr.  Morley  hear  Mari- 
on's message. 

"  But  the  message  is  not  to  Mr.  Morley,"  I  said. 
"  Marion  would  never  have  thought  of  sending  one  to 
him." 


240  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"But  if  I  ask  you  to  repeat  it  in  his  hearing,  you  will 
not  refuse  ?  " 

To  this  I  consented ;  hut  I  fear  she  was  disappointed 
in  the  result.  Her  hushand  only  smiled  sarcastically, 
drew  in  his  chin,  and  showed  himself  a  little  more  cheer- 
ful than  usual. 

One  morning,  ahout  two  months  after,  as  I  was  sitting 
in  Ihe  drawing-room,  with  my  bahy  on  the  floor  beside 
mo,  I  was  surprised  to  see  Judy's  brougham  pull  up  at 
the  little  gate  —  for  it  was  early.  When  she  got  out,  I 
perceived  at  once  that  something  was  amiss,  and  ran  to 
open  the  door.  Her  eyes  were  red,  and  her  cheeks  ashy. 
The  moment  we  reached  the  drawing-room,  she  sunk  on 
the  couch  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Judy  ! "  I  cried,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  Is  Amy 
worse  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  cozzy  dear  ;  but  we  are  ruined.  We  haven't 
a  penny  in  the  world.     The  children  will  be  beggars." 

And  there  were  the  gay  little  horses  champing  their 
bits  at  the  door,  and  the  coachman  sitting  in  all  his 
glory,  erect  and  impassive  ! 

I  did  my  best  to  quiet  her,  urging  no  questions. 
With  difficulty  I  got  her  to  swallow  a  glass  of  wine, 
after  which,  with  many  interruptions  and  fresh  outbursts 
of  misery,  she  managed  to  let  me  understand  that  her 
husband  had  been  speculating,  and  had  failed.  I  could 
hardly  believe  myself  awake.  Mr.  Morley  was  the  last 
man  I  should  have  thought  capable  either  of  speculating, 
or  of  failing  in  it  if  he  did. 

Knowing  nothing  about  business,  I  shall  not  attempt 
to  explain  the  particulars.  Coincident  failures  amongst 
his  correspondents  had  contributed  to  his  fall.  Judy 
said  he  had  not  been  like  himself  for  months  ;  but  it  was 
only  the  night  before  that  he  had  told  her  they  must 
give  up  their  house  in  Bolivar  Square,  and  take  a  small 
one  in  the  suburbs.  For  any  thing  he  could  see,  he  said, 
he  must  look  out  for  a  situation. 

*'  Still  you  may  be  happier  than  ever,  Judy.  I  can 
tell  you  that  happiness  does  not  depend  on  riches/'  I 
said,  though  I  could  not  help  crying  with  her. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGnTER.  241 

"  It's  a  different  thing  though,  after  you've  been  used 
to  them,"  she  answered.  "  But  the  question  is  of  bread 
for  my  children,  not  of  putting  down  my  carriage." 

She  rose  hurriedly. 

"Where  are  you  going?  Is  there  anything  I  can 
lo  for  you  ?  "     I  asked. 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered.  "  I  left  my  husband  at 
^Ir.  Baddeley's.  He  is  as  rich  as  Croesus,  and  could 
write  him  a  check  that  would  float  him." 

"  He's  too  rich  to  be  generous,  I'm.  afraid,"  I  said. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  If  he  be  so  generous,  how  does  it  come  that  he  is  so 
lich?" 

"  Why,  his  father  made  the  money." 

"  Then  he  most  likely  takes  after  his  father.  Percivale 
says  he  does  not  believe  a  huge  fortune  was  ever  made 
of  nothing,  without  such  pinching  of  one's  self  and  such 
scraping  of  others,  or  else  such  speculation,  as  is  essen- 
tially dishonorable." 

"  He  stands  high,"  murmured  Judy  hopelessly. 

"  Whether  what  is  dishonorable  be  also  disreputable 
depends  on  how  many  there  are  of  his  own  sort  in  the 
society  in  which  he  moves." 

"  Now,  coz,  you  know  nothing  to  his  discredit,  and 
he's  our  last  hope." 

"  I  will  say  no  more,"  I  answered.  "  I  hope  I  may 
be  quite  wrong.     Only  I  should  expect  nothing  of  him,.'" 

When  she  reached  Mr.  Baddeley's  her  husband  was 
gone.  Having  driven  to  his  counting-house,  and  been 
shown  into  his  private  room,  she  found  him  there  with 
his  head  between  his  hands.  The  great  man  had  de- 
clined doing  any  thing  for  him,  and  had  even  rebuked 
him  for  his  imprudence,  without  wasting  a  thought  on 
the  fact  that  every  penny  he  himself  possessed  was  the 
result  of  the  boldest  speculation  on  the  part  of  his  fa- 
ther. A  very  few  days  only  would  elapse  before  the  fall- 
ing due  of  certain  bills  must  at  once  disclose  the  state 
of  his  afi'airs. 

As  soon  as  she  had  left  me,  Percivale  not  being  at 
home,  I  put  on  my  bonnet,  and  went  to  find  Marion. 

21 


242  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  must  tell  her  everj'-  thing  that  caused  me  either  joy  or 
sorrow  ;  and  besides,  she  had  all  the  right  that  love  could 
give  to  know  of  Judy's  distress.  I  knew  all  her  engage- 
ments, and  therefore  where  to  find  her ;  and  sent  in  my 
card,  with  the  pencilled  intimation  that  I  would  wait 
the  close  of  her  lesson.  In  a  few  minutes  she  came 
out  and  got  into  the  cab.  At  once  I  told  her  my  sad 
news. 

"  Could  you  take  me  to  Cambridge  Square  to  my  next 
engagement  ?  "  she  said. 

I  was  considerably  surprised  at  the  cool  way  in  which 
she  received  the  communication,  but  of  course  I  gave 
the  necessary  directions. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  to  be  done  ?  "  she  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"  I  know  of  nothing,"  I  answered. 

Again  she  sat  silent  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  One  can't  move  without  knowing  all  the  circum- 
stances and  particulars,"  she  said  at  length.  "  And  how 
to  get  at  them  ?  He  wouldn't  make  a  confidante  of  vie,'' 
she  said,  smiling  sadly. 

"  Ah!  you  little  think  what  vast  sums  are  concerned 
in  such  a  failure  as  his!"  I  remarked,  astounded  that 
one  with  her  knowledge  of  the  world  should  talk  as  she 
did. 

"It  will  be  best,"  she  said,  after  still  another  pause, 
"  to  go  to  Mr.  Blackstone.  He  has  a  wonderful  acquaint- 
ance witli  business  for  a  clergyman,  and  knows  many  of 
the  city  people." 

'•  What  could  any  clergyman  do  in  such  a  case  ?  "  I 
returned.  "  For  Mr.  Blackstone,  Mr.  Morley  would  not 
accept  even  consolation  at  his  hands." 

"  Tlie  time  for  that  is  not  come  yet,"  said  Marion. 
*'  We  must  try  to  help  him  some  other  way  first.  We 
will,  if  we  can,  make  friends  with  him  by  means  of  the 
very  Mammon  that  has  all  but  ruined  him." 

vShe  spoke  of  the  great  merchant  just  as  she  might  of 
Richard,  or  any  of  the  bricklayers  or  mechanics,  whose 
spiritual  condition  she  pondered  that  she  might  aid  it. 

"But  what  could  Mr.  Blackstone  do?"  I  insisted. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  243 

"All  I  should  want  of  him  would  be  to  find  out  for  me 
what  Mr.  Morley's  liabilities  are,  and  how  much  would 
serve  to  tide  him  over  the  bar  of  his  present  difficulties. 
I  suspect  he  has  few  friends  who  would  risk  any  tiling 
for  him.  I  understand  he  is  no  favorite  in  the  city;  and, 
if  friendship  do  not  come  in,  he  must  be  utianded. 
You  believe  him  an  honorable  man,  — do  you  not?  "  she 
asked  abruptly. 

"  It  never  entered  my  head  to  doubt  it,"  I  replied. 

The  moment  we  reached  Cambridge  Square  she 
jumped  out,  ran  up  the  steps,  and  knocked  at  the  door. 
I  waited,  wondering  if  she  was  going  to  leave  me  thus 
without  a  farewell.  When  the  door  was  opened,  she 
merely  gave  a  message  to  the  man,  and  the  same  instant 
was  again  in  the  cab  by  my  side. 

"  Now  I  am  free  ! "  she  said,  and  told  the  man  to  drive 
to  Mile  End. 

"  I  fear  I  can't  go  with  you  so  far,  Marion,"  I  said.  ''  1 
must  go  home  —  I  bave  so  much  to  see  to,  and  you  can 
do  quite  as  well  withouo  me.  I  don't  know  what  you 
intend,  but  phase  don't  let  anj-- thing  come  out.  I  can 
trust  you,  but "  — r 

"  If  you  can  trust  me,  I  can  trust  Mr.  Blackstone. 
He  is  the  most  cautious  man  in  the  world.  Shall  I  get 
out,  and  take  another  cab  ?  " 

"  No.  You  can  drop  me  at  Tottenham  Court  Road, 
and  I  will  go  home  by  omnibus.  But  you  must  let  me 
pay  the  cab." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  am  richer  than  you  :  I  have  no  children. 
What  fun  it  is  to  spend  money  for  Mr.  Morley,  and  lay 
him  under  an  obligation  he  will  never  know  !  "  she  said, 
laughing. 

The  result  of  her  endeavors  was,  that  Mr.  Blackstone, 
by  a  circuitoixs  succession  of  introductions,  reached  Mr. 
Morley's  confidential  clerk,  whom  be  was  able  so  far  to 
satisfy  concerning  his  object  in  desiring  the  information, 
that  he  made  him  a  full  disclosure  of  the  condition  of 
aifairs,  and  stated  what  sum  would  be  sufficient  to  carry 
them  over  their  difficulties  ;  tbough,  he  added,  the  great- 
est care,  and  every  possible  reduction  of  expenditure  for 


244  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

some  years,  would  be  indispensable  to  their  complete  res- 
toration. 

Mr.  Blaclcstone  carried  his  discoveries  to  Miss  Clare 
and  she  to  Lady  Bernard. 

"  My  dear  Marion,"  said  Lady  Bernard,  "  this  is  a  se- 
rious matter  you  suggest.  The  man  may  be  honest,  and 
yet  it  may  be  of  no  use  trying  to  help  him.  I  don't 
want  to  bolster  him  up  for  a  few  months  in  order  to  see 
my  money  go  after  his.  That's  not  what  I've  got  to  do 
with  it.  No  doubt  I  could  lose  as  much  as  you  mention, 
without  being  crippled  by  it,  for  I  hope  it's  no  disgrace 
in  me  to  be  rich,  as  it's  none  in  you  to  be  poor ;  but  I 
hate  waste,  and  I  will  not  be  guilty  of  it.  If  Mr.  Mor- 
ley  will  convince  me  and  any  friend  or  man  of  business 
to  whom  I  may  refer  the  niattei",  that  there  is  good 
probability  of  his  recovering  himself  by  means  of  it,  then, 
and  not  till  then,  I  shall  feel  justified  in  risking  the 
amount.  For,  as  you  say,  it  would  prevent  much  misery 
to  many  besides  that  good-hearted  creature,  Mrs.  Mor- 
ley,  and  her  children.  It  is  worth  doing  if  it  can  be 
done  —  not  worth  trying  if  it  can't." 

"  Shall  I  write  for  you,  and  ask  him  to  come  and  see 
you?" 

"No,  my  dear.  If  I  do  a  kindness,  I  must  do  it 
humbly.  It  is  a  great  liberty  to  take  with  a  man  to  of- 
fer him  a  kindness.  I  must  go  to  him.  I  could  not  use 
the  same  freedom  with  a  man  in  misfortune  as  with  one 
in  prosperity.  I  would  have  such  a  one  feel  that  his 
money  or  his  poverty  made  no  difference  to  me;  and 
Mr.  ]\Iorley  wants  that  lesson,  if  any  man  does.  Be- 
sides, after  all,  I  may  not  be  able  to  do  it  for  him,  and  he 
would  have  good  reason  to  be  hurt  if  I  had  made  him 
dance  attendance  on  me." 

The  same  evening  Lady  Bernard's  shabby  one-horse- 
brougham  stopped  at  Mr.  Morley's  door.  She  asked  to 
see  Mrs.  Morley,  and  through  her  had  an  interview  with 
her  husband.  Without  circumlocution,  she  told  him 
that  if  he  would  lay  his  aftairs  before  her  and  a  certain 
accountant  she  named,  to  use  their  judgment  regarding 
them  in  the  hope  of  finding  it  possible  to  serve  him, 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  2i5 

they  would  Avait  upon  him  for  that  purpose  at  aiij  time 
and  place  he  pleased.  Mr.  Morley  expressed  his  obliga- 
tion, —  not  very  warmly,  she  said,  —  repudiating,  how- 
ever, the  slightest  objection  to  her  ladyship's  knowing 
now  what  all  the  world  must  know  the  next  day  but 
one. 

Early  the  following  morning  Lady  Bernard  and  the 
aQCOuntant  met  Mr.  Morley  at  his  place  in  the  city,  and 
by  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  fifteen  thousand  pounds 
were  handed  in  to  his  account  at  his  banker's. 

The  carriage  was  put  down,  the  butler,  one  of  the  foot- 
men, and  the  lady's  maid,  were  dismissed,  and  household 
arrangements  fitted  to  a  different  scale. 

One  consequence  of  this  chastisement,  as  of  the  pre- 
ceding, was,  that  the  whole  family  drew  yet  more  closely 
and  lovingly  together ;  and  I  must  say  for  Judy,  that, 
after  a  few  weeks  of  what  she  called  poverty,  her  spirits 
seemed  in  no  degree  the  worse  for  the  trial. 

At  Marion's  earnest  entreaty  no  one  told  either  Mr. 
or  Mrs.  Morley  of  the  share  she  had  had  in  saving  his 
credit  and  social  position.  For  some  time  she  suffered 
from  doubt  as  to  whether  she  had  had  any  right  to  in- 
terpose in  the  matter,  and  might  not  have  injured  Mr. 
Morley  by  depriving  him  of  the  discipline  of  poverty ; 
but  she  reasoned  with  herself,  that,  had  it  been  neces- 
sary for  him,  her  efforts  would  have  been  frustrated  ;  and 
reminded  herself,  that,  although  his  commercial  credit 
had  escaped,  it  must  still  be  a  considerable  trial  to  him 
to  live  in  reduced  style. 

But  that  it  was  not  all  the  trial  needful  for  him,  wa? 
soon  apparent ;  for  his  favorite  Amy  began  to  pine  more 
rapidly,  and  Judy  saw,  that,  except  some  change  speedily 
took  place,  they  could  not  have  her  with  them  long. 
The  father,  however,  refused  to  admit  the  idea  that  she 
was  in  danger.  I  suppose  he  felt  as  if,  were  he  once  to 
allow  the  possibility  of  losing  her,  from  that  moment 
there  would  be  no  stay  between  her  and  the  grave  :  it 
would  be  a  giving  of  her  over  to  death.  But  whatever 
Dr.  Brand  suggested  was  eagerly  followed.  When  the 
chills  of  autumn  drew  near,  her  mother  took  her  to  Vent- 

21» 


246  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

nor;  but  little  change  followed,  and  before  the  new  yeai 
slie  was  gone.  It  was  tlie  first  death,  beyond  that  of 
an  infant,  they  had  had  in  their  familj^,  and  took  place 
at  a  time  when  the  pressure  of  business  obligations  ren- 
dered it  impossible  for  her  father  to  be  out  of  London  : 
he  could  only  go  to  lay  her  in  the  earth,  and  bring  back 
his  wife.  Judy  had  never  seen  him  weep  before.  Cer- 
tainly I  never  saw  such  a  change  in  a  man.  He  was 
literally  bowed  with  grief,  as  if  he  bore  a  material  bur- 
den on  his  back.  The  best  feelings  of  his  nature,  unim- 
peded by  any  jar  to  his  self-importance  or  his  prejudices, 
had  been  able  to  spend  themselves  on  the  lovely  little 
*.reature  ;  and  I  do  not  believe  any  other  suffering  than 
the  loss  of  such  a  child  could  have  brought  into  play  that 
in  him  which  w^as  purely  human. 

He  was  at  home  one  morning,  ill  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  when  Marion  called  on  Judy.  While  she 
waited  in  the  drawing-room,  he  entered.  He  turned  the 
moment  he  saw  her,  but  had  not  taken  two  steps  towards 
the  door,  when  he  turned  again,  and  approached  her. 
She  went  to  meet  him.     He  held  out  his  liand. 

"  She  was  very  fond  of  you,  Miss  Clare,'  he  said. 
"  She  w^as  talking  about  you  the  very  last  time  I  saw 
her.     Let  by-gones  be  by-gones  between  us." 

'•  I  was  very  rough  and  rude  to  you,  Mr.  Morley,  and  I 
am  very  sorry,"  said  Marion. 

"  But  you  spoke  the  truth,"  he  rejoined.  ''  I  thought 
I  was  above  being  spoken  to  like  a  sinner,  but  I  don't 
know  now  why  not." 

He  sat  down  on  a  couch,  and  leaned  his  head  on  his 
hand.  Marion  took  a  chair  near  him,  but  could  no*", 
speak. 

"  It  is  very  hard,"  he  murmured  at  length. 

"  Whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth,"  said  Marion. 

"That  may  be  true  in  some  cases,  but  I  have  no  right 
to  believe  it  applies  to  me.  He  loved  the  child,  I  would 
fain  believe ;  for  I  dare  not  think  of  her  either  as  hav- 
ing ceased  to  be,  or  as  alone  in  the  world  to  which  she 
has  gone.  You  do  think.  Miss  Clare,  do  you  not,  that 
we  shall  know  our  friends  in  another  world  ?  " 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  247 

"  I  believe,"  answered  Marion,  "  that  God  sent  you 
that  child  for  the  express  purpose  of  enticing  jo\x  back 
to  himself;  and,  if  I  believe  any  thing  at  all,  I  believe 
that  the  gifts  of  God  are  without  repentance." 

Whether  or  not  he  understood  lier  she  could  not  tell, 
for  at  this  point  Judy  came  in.  Seeing  them  together 
she  would  have  withdrawn  again  ;  but  her  husband  called 
her,  with  more  tenderness  in  his  voice  than  Marion  could 
have  imagined  belonging  to  it. 

"  Come,  my  dear.  Miss  Clare  and  I  were  talking 
about  our  little  angel.  I  didn't  think  ever  to  speak  of 
her  again,  but  I  fear  I  am  growing  foolish.  All  the 
strength  is  out  of  me  ;  and  I  feel  so  tired,  —  so  w^eary  of 
every  thing ! " 

She  sat  down  beside  him,  and  took  his  hand.  Marion 
crept  away  to  the  children.  An  hour  after,  Judy  found 
her  in  the  nursery,  with  the  youngest  on  her  knee,  and 
the  rest  all  about  her.  She  was  telling  them  tluit  we 
were  sent  into  this  world  to  learn  to  be  good,  and  then 
go  back  to  God  from  whom  we  came,  like  little  Amy. 

''  When  I  go  out  to-mowwow,"  said  one  little  fellow, 
about  four  years  old,  "  I'll  look  up  into  the  sky  vewy 
hard,  wight  up ;  and  then  I  shall  see  Amy,  and  God 
saying  to  her,  •'  Hushaby,  poo'  Amy  !  You  bette'  now, 
Amy  ?  '     Sha'n't  I,  Mawion  ?  " 

She  had  taught  them  to  call  her  Marion. 

"  No,  my  pet :  you  might  look  and  look,  all  day  long, 
and  every  day,  and  never  see  God  or  Amj^" 

"  Then  they  alnH  there  !  "  he  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"  God  is  there,  anyhow,"  she  answered ;  "  only  you 
can't  see  him  that  way." 

"  I  don't  care  about  seeing  God,"  said  the  next  elder  : 
"  it's  Amy  I  want  to  see.  Do  tell  me,  Marion,  how  we 
are  to  see  Amy.  It's  too  bad  if  w^e'ro  never  to  see  her 
again  ;  and  I  don't  think  it's  fair." 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  only  way  I  know.  When  Jesus 
was  in  the  world,  he  told  us  that  all  who  had  clean 
hearts  should  see  God.  That's  how  Jesus  himself  saw 
God." 


248  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER, 

"  It's  Amy,  I  tell  you,  Marion  —  it's  not  GoJ  I  want 
to  see,"  insisted  the  one  who  had  last  spoken. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  but  how  can  you  see  Amy  if  you 
can't  even  see  God  ?  If  Amy  be  in  God's  arms,  the  first 
thing,  in  order  to  find  her,  is  to  find  God.  To  be  good 
is  the  only  way  to  get  near  to  anybody.  When  you're 
naughty,  Willie,  you  can't  get  near  your  mamma,  can 


you 


?" 


"  Yes,  I  can.     I  can  get  close  up  to  her." 

"  Is  that  near  enough  ?  Would  you  be  quite  content 
with  that  ?  Even  when  she  turns  away  her  face  and 
won't  look  at  you  ?  " 

The  little  caviller  was  silent. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  God,  Marion  ?  "  asked  one  of  the 
girls. 

She  thought  for  a  moment  before  giving  an  answer. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I've  seen  things  just  after  he  had 
done  them  ;  and  I  think  I've  heard  him  speak  to  me ; 
but  I've  never  seen  him  yet." 

"Then you're  not  good,  Marion,"  said  the  free-thinker 
of  the  group. 

"No  :  that's  just  it.  But  I  hope  to  be  good  jome  day, 
and  then  I  shall  see  him." 

"  How  do  you  grow  good,  Marion  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"God  is  always  trying  to  make  me  good,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  and  I  try  not  to  interfere  with  him." 

"  But  sometimes  you  forget,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"  And  what  do  you  do  then  ?  " 

"Then  I'm  sorry  and  unhappy,  and  begin  to  try 
again." 

"  And  God  don't  mind  much,  does  he  ?  " 

"  He  minds  very  much  until  I  mind ;  but  after  that 
he  forgets  it  all,  —  takes  all  my  naughtiness  and  throws 
it  behind  his  back,  and  won't  look  at  it." 

"  That's  very  good  of  God,"  said  the  reasoner,  but  with 
such  a  self-satisfied  air  in  his  approval,  that  Marion 
thouglit  it  time  to  stop. 

She  came  straight  to  me,  and  told  me,  with  a  face 
perfectly  radiant,  of  the  alteration  in  Mr.  Morley's  be- 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  249 

havior  to  her,  and,  what  was  of  much  more  consequence, 
the  evident  change  that  had  begun  to  he  wrought  in  him. 

I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  he  lias,  as  yet,  shown 
a  very  shining  hght,  but  that  some  change  has  passed  is 
evident  in  the  whole  man  of  him.  I  think  the  eternal 
wind  must  now  be  able  to  get  in  through  some  chink  or 
other  which  the  loss  of  his  child  has  left  behind.  And, 
if  the  change  were  not  going  on,  surel}''  he  would  ere  now 
have  returned  to  his  wallowing  in  the  mire  of  Mam- 
mon ;  for  his  former  fortune  is,  I  understand,  all  but  re- 
stored to  him. 

I  fancy  his  growth  in  goodness  might  be  known  and 
measured  by  his  progress  in  appreciating  Marion.  He 
still  regards  her  as  extreme  in  her  notions  ;  but  it  is 
curious  to  see  how,  as  they  gradually  sink  into  his  under- 
standing, he  comes  to  adopt  them  as,  and  even  to  mis- 
take them  for,  his  own. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A   STRANGE   TEXT. 

For  some  time  after  the  events  last  related,  thinga 
went  on  pretty  smoothly  with  us  for  several  years.  In- 
deed, although  I  must  confess  that  what  I  said  in  my 
haste,  when  Mr.  S.  wanted  me  to  write  this  book,  namely, 
that  nothing  had  ever  happened  to  me  worth  telling,  was 
by  no  means  correct,  and  that  I  have  found  out  my  mis- 
take in  the  process  of  writing  it ;  yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  must  be  granted  that  my  story  could  never  have 
reached  the  mere  bulk  required  if  I  had  not  largely 
drawn  upon  the  history  of  my  friends  to  supplement  my 
own.  And  it  needs  no  prophetic  gift  to  foresee  that  it 
will  be  the  same  to  tlie  end  of  the  book.  The  lives  of 
these  friends,  however,  have  had  so  much  to  do  with  all 
that  is  most  precious  to  me  in  our  own  life,  that,  if  I 
were  to  leave  out  only  all  that  did  not  immediately  touch 
upon  the  latter,  the  book,  whatever  it  might  appear  to 
others,  could  not  possibly  then  appear  to  mj^self  any  thing 
like  a  real  representation  of  my  actual  life  and  exjiori- 
ences.     The  drawing  might  be  correct,  —  but  the  color  ? 

What  with  my  children,  and  the  increase  of  social 
duty  resulting  from  the  growth  of  acquaintance,  —  oc- 
casioned in  part  by  my  success  in  persuading  Percivale 
to  mingle  a  little  more  with  his  fellow-painters,  —  my 
heart  and  mind  and  hands  were  all  pretty  fully  occupied  ; 
but  I  still  managed  to  see  Marion  two  or  three  times  a 
week,  and  to  spend  about  so  man}'  hours  with  her,  some- 
times alone,  sometimes  with  her  friends  as  well.  Her 
society  did  much  to  keej)  my  heart  open,  and  to  prevent 
it  from  becoming  selfishly  absorbed  in  its  cares  for  hus- 
band and  children.     For  love  which  is  only  concentrat- 

250 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  251 

ing  its  force,  that  is,  which  is  not  at  the  same  time 
widening  its  circle,  is  itself  doomed,  and  for  its  objects 
ruinous,  be  those  objects  ever  so  sacred.  God  h'aiself 
could  never  be  content  that  his  children  should  love  him 
only;  nor  has  he  allowed  the  few  to  succeed  who  have 
tried  after  it:  perhaps  their  divinest  success  has  been 
their  most  mortifying  failure.  Indeed,  for  exclusive  love 
sharp  suffering  is  often  sent  as  the  needful  cure,  —  need- 
ful to  break  the  stony  crust,  which,  in  the  name  of  love 
for  one's  own,  gathers  about  the  divinely  glowing  core  ; 
a  crust  which,  promising  to  cherish  by  keeping  in  the 
heat,  would  yet  gradually  thicken  until  all  was  crust ;  for 
truly,  in  things  of  the  heart  and  spirit,  as  the  warmth 
ceases  to  spread,  the  molten  mass  within  ceases  to  glow,, 
until  at  length,  but  for  the  divine  care  and  discipline, 
there  would  be  no  love  left  for  even  spouse  or  child,  only 
for  self,  — which  is  eternal  death. 

For  some  time  I  had  seen  a  considerable  change  in 
Roger.  It  reached  even  to  his  dress.  Hitherto,  when 
got  up  for  dinner,  he  was  what  I  was  astonished  to  hear 
my  eldest  boy,  the  other  day,  call  "  a  howling  swell ;  "  but 
at  other  times  he  did  not  even  escape  remark,  —  not  for 
the  oddity  merely,  but  the  slovenliness  of  his  attire.  He 
had  worn,  for  more  years  than  I  dare  guess,  a  brown 
coat,  of  some  rich-looking  stuff",  whose  long  pile  was  stuck 
together  in  many  places  with  spots  and  dabs  of  paint,  so 
that  he  looked  like  our  long-haired  Bedlington  terrier 
Fido,  towards  the  end  of  the  week  in  muddy  weather. 
This  was  now  discarded ;  so  far  at  least,  as  to  be  hung 
up  in  his  brother's  study,  to  be  at  hand  when  he  did 
any  thing  for  him  there,  and  replaced  by  a  more  civilized 
garment  of  tweed,  of  which  he  actually  showed  himself 
a  little  careful :  while,  if  his  necktie  was  red,  it  was  of 
a  very  deep  and  rich  red,  and  he  had  seldom  worn  one 
at  all  before;  and  his  brigand-looking  felt  hat  was  ex- 
changed for  one  of  half  the  altitude,  which*  he  did  not 
crush  on  his  head  with  quite  as  many  indentations  as  its 
surface  could  hold.  He  also  began  to  go  to  church  with 
us  sometimes. 

But  there  was  a  greater  and  more  significant  change 


252  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

than  any  of  these.  We  found  that  he  was  sticking  more 
steadily  to  work.  I  can  hardly  say  his  work  ;  for  he  was 
Jack-of-all-trades,  as  I  have  already  indicated.  He  had 
a  small  income,  left  him  by  an  old  maiden  aunt  with 
whom  he  had  been  a  favorite,  which  had  hitherto  seemed 
to  do  him  nothing  but  harm,  enabling  liim  to  alternate 
fits  of  comparative  diligence  with  fits  of  positive  idle- 
ness. I  have  said  also,  I  believe,  that,  although  he  could 
do  nothing  thoroughly,  application  alone  was  wanted  to 
enable  him  to  distinguish  himself  in  more  than  one 
thing.  His  forte  was  engraving  on  wood;  and  my  lius- 
band  said,  that,  if  he  could  do  so  well  with  so  little 
practice  as  he  had  had,  he  must  be  capable  of  becoming 
an  admirable  engraver.  To  our  delight,  then,  we  dis- 
covered, all  at  once,  that  he  had  been  working   steadily 

for  three    months  for  the    Messrs.  D ,  whose  place 

was  not  far  from  our  house.  He  had  said  nothing  about 
it  to  his  brother,  probably  from  having  good  reason  to 
fear  that  he  would  regard  it  only  as  a  sjnirt.  Having 
now,  however,  executed  a  block  which  greatly  pleased 
himself,  he  had  brought  a  proof  impression  to  show 
Percivale  ;  who,  more  pleased  with  it  than  even  Roger 
himself,  gave  him  a  hearty  congratulation,  and  told  him 
it  would  be  a  shame  if  he  did  not  bring  his  execution  in 
that  art  to  perfection ;  from  which,  judging  by  the  pres- 
ent specimen,  he  said  it  could  not  be  far  ott".  The  words 
brougl^t  into  Roger's  face  an  expression  of  modest  grati- 
fication which  it  rejoiced  me  to  behold:  he  accepted  Per- 
civale's  approbation  more  like  a  son  than  a  brother,  with 
a  humid  glow  in  his  eyes  and  hardly  a  word  on  his  lips. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  the  child  in  his  heart  had  begun  to 
throw  off"  the  swaddling  clothes  which  foolish  manhood 
had  wrapped  around  it,  and  the  germ  of  his  being  was 
about  to  assert  itself.  I  have  seldom  indeed  seen  Per- 
civale look  so  pleased. 

"  Do  me  a  dozen  as  good  as  that,"  he  said,  "  and  I'll 
have  the  proofs  framed  in  silver  gilt." 

It  has  been  done  ;  but  the  proofs  had  to  wait  longer 
for  the  frame  than  Percivale  for  the  proofs. 

But  he  need  have  held  out  no  such  bribe  of  brotherly 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  253 

love,  for  there  was  another  love  already  at  work  in  him- 
self more  than  sufficing  to  the  affair.  But  I  check  my- 
self: who  shall  say  what  love  is  sufficing  for  this  cr  for 
that?  Who,  with  the  most  enduring  and  most  passion- 
ate love  his  heart  can  hold,  will  venture  to  say  that  he 
could  have  done  without  the  love  of  a  brother  ?  Who 
will  say  that  he  could  have  done  without  the  love  of  the 
dog  whose  bones  have  lain  mouldering  in  his  garden 
for  twenty  years  ?  It  is  enough  to  say  that  there  was 
a  more  engrossing,  a  more  marvellous  love  at  work. 

Roger  always,  however,  took  a  half-holiday  on  Satur- 
days, and  now  generally  came  to  us.  On  one  of  these 
occasions  I  said  to  him,  — 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  come  and  hear  Marion  play  to 
her  friends  this  evening,  Roger  ?  " 

''  Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure,"  he  an- 
swered ;    and  we  went. 

It  was  deliglitful.  In  my  opinion  Marion  is  a  real 
artist.  I  do  not  claim  for  her  the  higher  art  of  origina- 
tion, though  I  could  claim  for  her  a  much  higher  faculty 
than  the  artistic  itself  I  suspect,  for  instance,  that 
Moses  was  a  greater  man  than  the  writer  of  the  Book 
of  Job,  notwithstanding  that  the  poet  moves  me  so 
much  more  than  the  divine  politician.  Marion  combined 
in  a  wonderful  way  the  critical  faculty  with  the  artistic; 
which  two,  however  much  of  the  one  may  be  found  with- 
out the  other,  are  mutually  essential  to  the  perfection 
of  each.  While  she  uttered  from  herself,  she  heard  with 
her  audience  ;  while  slie  played  and  sung  witli  her  own 
fingers  and  mouth,  she  at  the  same  time  listened  with 
their  ears,  knowing  what  they  must  feel,  as  well  as 
what  she  meant  to  utter.  And  hence  it  was,  I  think, 
that  she  came  into  such  vital  contact  with  them,  even 
through  her  piano. 

As  we  returned  home,  Roger  said,  after  some  remark 
of  mine  of  a  cognate  sort,  — 

"  Does  she  never  try  to  teach  them  any  thing,  Ethel  ?  " 

"  She  is  constantly  teaching  them,  whether  she  tries 
or  not,"  I  answered.  "  If  you  can?  make  any  one  believe 
that  there  is  something  somewhere  to  be  trusted,  is  not 

22 


254  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

that  tlie  best  lesson  you  can  give  him  ?  That  can  be 
taught  onlyby  being  such  that  people  cannot  but  trust  you." 

"  I  didn't  need  to  be  told  that,"  he  answered.  "  What 
I  want  to  know  is,  whether  or  not  she  ever  teaches  them 
by  word  of  mouth,  —  an  ordinary  and  inferior  mode,  if 
you  will." 

"  If  you  had  ever  heard  her,  you  would  not  call  hers 
an  ordinary  or  inferior  mode,"  I  returned.  "  Her  teach- 
ing is  the  outcome  of  her  life,  the  blossom  of  her  being, 
and  therefore  has  the  whole  force  of  her  living  truth  to 
back  it." 

"  Have  I  offended  you,  Ethel  ?  "  he  asked. 

Then  I  saw,  that,  in  my  eagerness  to  glorify  my 
friend,  I  had  made  myself  unpleasant  to  Roger,  —  a 
fault  of  which  I  had  been  dimly  conscious  before  now. 
Marion  would  never  have  fallen  into  that  error.  She 
always  made  her  friends  feel  that  she  was  lo'ith  them, 
side  by  side  with  them,  and  turning  her  face  in  the  same 
direction,  before  she  attempted  to  lead  tliem  fartlier. 

I  assured  him  that  he  had  not  offended  me,  but  that  I 
had  been  foolishly  backing  him  from  the  front,  as  I  once 
heard  an  Irishman  say,  —  some  of  whose  bulls  were  very 
good  milch  cows. 

"  She  teaches  them  every  Sunday  evening,"  I  added. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  her  ?  " 

"  More  than  once.  And  I  never  heard  an}'-  thing  like  it." 

"Could  you  take  me  with  jo\x  some  time  ?  "  he  asked, 
in  an  assumed  tone  of  ordinary  interest,  out  of  which, 
however,  he  could  not  keep  a  slight  tremble. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  quite  see  why  I  shouldn't. 
And  yet "  — 

"  Men  do  go,"  urged  Roger,  as  if  it  were  a  mere 
half-indifferent  suggestion. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  you  would  have  plenty  to  keep  you  in 
countenance  !  "  I  returned,  —  "  men  enough  —  and 
worth  teaching,  too  —  some  of  them  at  least !  " 

"Then,  I  don't  see  why  she  should  object  to  me  for 
another." 

"  I  don't  know  that  she  would.  You  are  not  exactly 
of  the  sort,  you  know  —  that "  — 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  255 

"I  don't  see  the  difference.  I  see  no  essential  differ- 
ence, at  least.  The  main  thing  is,  that  I  am  in  want 
of  teaching,  as  much  as  any  of  them.  And,  if  she  stands 
on  circumstances,  I  am  a  working-man  as  much  as  any 
of  them  —  perhaps  more  than  most  of  them.  Few  of 
them  work  after  midnight,  I  should  think,  as  I  do,  not 
unfrequently." 

"Still,  all  admitted,  I  should  hardly  like"  — 

"  I  didn't  mean  you  were  to  take  me  without  asking 
her,"  he  said  :  "  I  should  never  have  dreamed  of  that." 

"  And  if  I  were  to  ask  her,  I  am  certain  she  would 
refuse.  But,"  I  added,  thinking  over  the  matter  a  lit- 
tle, "  I  will  take  you  without  asking  her.  Come  with 
me  to-morrow  night.  I  don't  think  she  will  have  the 
heart  to  send  you  away." 

"  I  will,"  he  answered,  with  more  gladness  in  his  voice 
than  he  intended,  I  think,  to  manifest  itself. 

We  arranged  that  he  should  call  for  me  at  a  certain 
hour. 

I  told  Percivale,  and  he  pretended  to  grumble  that  I 
was  taking  Roger  instead  of  him. 

"  It  was  Roger,  and  not  you,  that  made  the  request," 
I  returned.  "  I  can't  say  I  see  why  you  should  go  be- 
cause Roger  asked.  A  woman's  logic  is  not  equal  to 
that." 

"  I  didn't  mean  he  wasn't  to  go.  But  why  shouldn't 
I  be  done  good  to  as  well  as  he  ?  " 

"  If  you  really  want  to  go,"  I  said,  "  I  don't  see  why 
you  shouldn't.  It's  ever  so  much  better  than  going  to 
any  church  I  know  of  —  except  one.  But  we  must  be 
prudent.  I  can't  take  more  than  one  the  first  time. 
We  must  get  the  thin  edge  of  the  wedge  in  first." 

"  And  you  count  Roger  the  thin  edge  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I'll  tell  him  so." 

"  Do.  The  thin  edge,  mind,  without  which  the  thicker 
the  rest  is  the  more  useless !  Tell  him  that  if  you  like. 
But,  seriously,  I  quite  expect  to  take  you  there,  too,  the 
Sunday  after." 

Roger  and  I  went.     Intending  to  be  a  little  late,  we 


256  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

found  when  we  reached  the  house,  that,  as  we  had 
wished,  the  class  was  already  begun.  In  going  up  the 
stairs,  we  saw  very  few  of  the  grown  inhabitants,  but 
in  several  of  the  rooms,  of  which  the  doors  stood  open, 
elder  girls  taking  care  of  the  younger  children ;  in  one, 
a  boy  nursing  the  baby  with  as  much  interest  as  any 
girl  could  have  shown.  We  lingered  on  the  way,  wish- 
ing to  give  Marion  time  to  get  so  thoroughly  into  her 
work  that  she  could  take  no  notice  of  our  intrusion. 
When  we  reached  the  last  stair  we  could  at  length  hear 
her  voice,  of  which  the  first  words  we  could  distinguish, 
as  we  still  ascended,  were,  — 

"  I  will  now  read  to  you  the  chapter  of  which  I 
spoke.'"' 

The  door  being  open,  we  could  hear  well  enough,  al- 
though she  was  sitting  where  we  could  not  see  her.  We 
would  not  show  ourselves  until  the  reading  was  ended : 
so  much,  at  least,  we  might  overhear  without  offence. 

Before  she  had  read  many  words,  Roger  and  I  began 
to  cast  strange  looks  on  each  other.  For  this  was  the 
chapter  she  read  :  — 

"  And  Joseph,  wheresoever  he  went  in  the  cit}',  took 
the  Lord  Jesus  with  him,  where  he  was  sent  for  to  work, 
to  make  gates,  or  milk-pails,  or  sieves,  or  boxes  ;  the 
Lord  Jesus  was  with  him  wheresoever  he  went.  And  as 
often  as  Joseph  had  an}''  thing  in  his  work  to  make 
longer  or  shorter,  or  wider  or  narrower,  the  Lord  Jesus 
would  stretch  his  hand  towards  it.  And  presently  it 
became  as  Joseph  would  have  it.  So  that  he  had  no 
need  to  finish  any  thing  with  his  own  hands,  for  he  was 
not  very  skilful  at  his  carpenter's  trade. 

"On  a  certain  time  the  king  of  Jerusalem  sent  for 
him,  and  said,  I  would  have  thee  make  me  a  throne  of 
the  same  dimensions  with  that  place  in  which  I  com- 
monly sit.  Joseph  obeyed,  and  forthwith  began  the 
work,  and  continued  two  years  in  the  king's  palace  be- 
fore he  finished.  And  when  he  came  to  fix  it  in  its 
place,  he  found  it  wanted  two  spans  on  each  side  of  the 
appointed  measure.  Which,  when  the  king  saw,  he 
was  very  angry  with  Joseph  j  and  Joseph,  afraid  of  the 


.■^^  OF  THR        $^ 

%SIVEESIT7l 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  257 

king's  anger,  went  to  bed  without  his  supper,  taking 
not  any  thing  to  eat.  Then  the  Lord  Jesus  asked  him 
what  he  was  afraid  of.  Joseph  replied,  Because  I  have 
lost  my  labor  in  the  work  which  I  have  been  about 
these  two  j^ears.  Jesus  said  to  him,  Fear  not,  neither 
be  cast  down  ;  do  thou  lay  hold  on  one  side  of  the 
throne,  and  I  will  the  other,  and  we  will  bring  it  to  its 
just  dimensions.  And  when  Joseph  had  done  as  the 
Lord  Jesus  said,  and  each  of  them  had  with  strength 
drawn  his  side,  the  throne  obej'ed,  and  was  brought  to 
the  proper  dimensions  of  the  place  ;  which  miracle  when 
they  who  stood  by  saw,  they  were  astonished,  and  praised 
God.  The  throne  was  made  of  the  same  wood  which 
was  in  being  in  Solomon's  time,  namely,  wood  adorned 
with  various  shapes  and  figures." 

Her  voice  ceased,  and  a  pause  followed. 

"  We  must  go  in  now,"  I  whispered. 

"  She'll  be  going  to  say  something  now ;  just  wait  till 
she's  started,"  said  Roger. 

"Now,  what  do  3'ou  think  of  it?"  asked  Marion  in  a 
meditative  tone. 

We  crept  within  the  scope  of  her  vision,  and  stood, 
A  voice,  which  I  knew,  was  at  the  moment  replying  to 
her  question. 

"/don't  think  it's  much  of  a  chapter,  that,  grannie." 

The  speaker  was  the  keen-faced,  elderly  man,  with 
iron-gray  wliiskers,  who  had  come  forward  to  talk  to 
Percivale  on  that  miserable  evening  when  we  were  out 
searching  for  little  Ethel.  He  sat  near  where  we  stood 
by  the  door,  between  two  respectable  looking  women, 
who  had  been  listening  to  the  chapter  as  devoutly  as  if 
it  had  been  of  the  true  gospel. 

"  Sure,  grannie,  that  ain't  out  o'  the  Bible?"  said 
another  voice,  from  somewhere  farther  off. 

"  We'll  talk  about  that  presently,"  answered  Marion. 
*' I  want  to  hear  what  Mr.  Jarvis  has  to  say  to  it:  he's 
a  carpenter  himself,  you  see,  —  a  joiner,  that  is,  you 
know." 

All  the  faces  in  the  room  were  now  turned  towards 
Jarvis. 


258  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Tell  1110  why  you  don't  think  much  of  it,  Mr.  Jar- 
vis,"  said  Marion. 

"  'Tain't  a  bit  likely,"  he  answered, 

"What  isn't  likely?" 

''Why,  not  one  single  thing  in  the  whole  kit  of  it 
And  first  and  foremost,  'tain't  a  bit  likely  the  old  man 
'ud  ha'  been  sich  a  duffer." 

"Why  not?  There  must  have  been  stupid  people 
then  as  well  as  now." 

"  Not  his  father."  said  Jarvis  decidedly. 

"  He  wasn't  but  his  step-father,  like,  you  know,  Mr. 
Jarvis,"  remarked  the  woman  beside  him  in  a  low  voice. 

"Well,  he'd  never  ha'  been  hers,  then.  She  wouldn't 
ha'  had  a  word  to  say  to  him." 

"  I  have  seen  a  good  —  and  wise  woman  too  —  with 
a  dull  husband,"  said  Marion. 

"  You  know  you  don't  believe  a  word  of  it  yourself, 
grannie,"  said  still  another  voice. 

"  Besides,"  she  went  on  without  heeding  the  interrup- 
tion, "in  those  times,  I  suspect,  such  things  were  mostly 
managed  by  the  parents,  and  the  woman  herself  had 
little  to  do  with  them." 

A  murmur  of  subdued  indignation  arose,  —  chiefly  of 
female  voices. 

"  Well,  they  wouldn't  then,"  said  Jarvis. 

"  He  might  have  been  rich,"  suggested  Marion. 

"  I'll  go  bail  he  never  made  the  monej''  then,"  said 
Jarvis.  "  An  old  idget !  I  don't  believe  sich  a  feller 
'ud  ha'  been  let  marry  a  woman  like  her —  I  donH." 

"  You  mean  you  don't  think  God  would  liave  let 
him  ?  " 

"Well,  that's  what  I  do  mean,  grannie.  The  thing 
couldn't  ha'  been,  nohow." 

"I  agree  with  you  quite.  And  now  I  want  to  hear 
more  of  wliat  in  the  story  you  don't  consider  likely." 

"  W^ell,  it  ain't  likely  sicli  a  workman  'ud  ha'  stood 
so  high  i'  the  trade  that  the  king  of  Jerusalem  would  ha' 
sent  for  him  of  all  the  tradesmen  in  the  town  to  make 
his  new  throne  for  him.  No  more  it  ain't  likely  —  and 
let  him  be  as  big  a  duffer  as  ever  was,  to  be  a  jiner  at  all 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  259 

—  tliat  he'd  ha'  been  two  year  at  work  on  that  there 
throne  —  an'  a  carvin'  of  it  in  figures  too  !  —  and  never 
found  out  it  was  four  spans  too  narrer  for  tlie  place  it 
had  to  stand  in.  Do  ye  'appen  to  know  now,  grannie, 
how  much  is  a  span  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     Do  j^ou  know,  Mrs.  Percivale  ?  " 

The  sudden  reference  took  me  very  much  by  surprise  ; 
but  1  had  not  forgotten,  happily,  the  answer  I  received 
to  the  same  question,  when  anxious  to  realize  the  mon- 
strous height  of  Goliath. 

''I  remember  my  father  telling  me,"  I  replied,  "that 
it  was  as  much  as  you  could  stretch  between  your  thumb 
and  little  finger." 

"  There  !  "  cried  Jarvis  triumphantly,  parting  the  ex- 
treme members  of  his  right  hand  against  the  back  of 
the  woman  in  front  of  him  —  "  that  would  be  seven  or 
eight  inches  !  Four  times  that  ?  Two  foot  and  a  half  at 
least !     Think  of  that !  " 

"  I  admit  the  force  of  both  your  objections,"  said  Mari- 
on. ''  And  now,  to  turn  to  a  more  important  part  of 
the  story,  what  do  3'ou  think  of  the  way  in  which  ac- 
cording to  it  he  got  his  father  out  of  his  evil  plight?  " 

I  saw  plainly  enough  that  she  was  quietly  advancing 
towards  some  point  in  her  view,  —  guiding  the  talk  thith- 
erward, steadily,  without  haste  or  eftbrt. 

Before  Jarvis  had  time  to  make  any  repl^^,  the  blind 
man,  mentioned  in  a  former  chapter,  struck  in,  with  the 
tone  of  one  who  had  been  watching  his  opportunity. 

"/make  more  o'  that  pint  than  the  t'  other,"  he  said. 
"  A  man  as  is  a  dufter  may  well  make  a  mull  of  a  thing; 
but  a  man  as  knows  what  he's  up  to  can't.  I  don't  make 
much  o'  them  miracles,  jou  know,  grannie — that  is,  I 
don't  know,  and  what  I  don't  know,  I  won't  say  as  I 
knows;  but  what  I'm  sure  of  is  this  here  one  thing, -^- 
that  man  or  boy  as  rouJd  work  a  miracle,  you  know, 
grannie,  wouldn't  work  no  miracle  as  there  wasn't  no 
good  working  of." 

"  It  was  to  help  his  father,"  suggested  Marion. 

Here  Jarvis  broke  in  almost  with  scorn. 


2G0  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"To  help  him  to  pass  for  a  clever  fellow,  when  he  was 
as  great  a  dulfer  as  ever  broke  bread ! " 

"I'm  quite  o'  your  opinion,  Mr.  Jarvis,"  said  the  blind 
man.  "  It'  ud  ha'  been  more  like  him  to  tell  his  fiither 
what  a  duffer  he  was,  and  send  him  home  to  learn  his 
trade." 

"  He  couldn't  do  that,  you  know,"  said  Marion  gently. 
"  He  cotddn't  use  such  words  to  his  father,  if  he  were 
ever  so  stupid." 

"His  step-father,  grannie,"  suggested  the  woman  who 
had  corrected  Jarvis  on  the  same  point.  She  spoke  very 
modestl}',  but  was  clearly  bent  on  holding  forth  what 
light  she  had. 

"  Certainly,  Mrs.  Eenton ;  but  you  know  he  couldn't 
be  rude  to  any  one,  —  leaving  his  own  mother's  husband 
out  of  the  question." 

"  True  for  you,  grannie,"  returned  the  woman. 

"I  think,  though,"  said  Jarvis,  "for  as  hard  as  he'd 
ha'  found  it,  it  would  ha'  been  more  like  him  to  set  to 
work  and  teach  his  father,  than  to  scamp  up  his  mulls." 

"Certainly,"  acquiesced  Marion.  "To  hide  any 
man's  faults,  and  leave  him  not  only  stupid,  but,  in  all 
probability,  obstinate  and  self-satisfied,  would  not  be  like 
him.  Suppose  our  Lord  had  had  such  a  father:  what  do 
you  think  he  would  have  done  ?  " 

"  He'd  ha'  done  all  he  could  to  make  a  man  of  him," 
answered  Jarvis. 

"  Wouldn't  he  have  set  about  making  him  comfortable 
then,  in  spite  of  his  blunders  ?  "  said  Marion. 

A  significant  silence  followed  this  question. 

"  Well,  ?io;  not  first  thing,  I  don't  think,"  returned 
Jarvis  at  length.  "  He'd  ha'  got  him  o'  some  good 
first,  and  gone  in  to  make  him  comfortable  arter." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  would  rather  be  of  some  good 
and  v;ncomfortable,  than  of  no  good  and  comfortable  ?  " 
said  Marion. 

"  I  hope  so,  grannie,"  answered  Jarvis ;  and  "  2 
would  ;  "  "  Yes  ;  "  "  That  I  would,"  came  from  several 
voices  in  the  little  crowd,  showing  what  an  influence 
Marion  must  have  already  had  upon  them. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGITTER.  2G1 

"Then,"  she  said,  —  and  I  saw  by  the  light  which 
rose  in  her  eyes  that  she  was  now  coming  to  the  point, 
—  "Then,  surely  it  must  he  worth  our  while  to  hear  dis- 
comfort in  order  to  grow  of  some  good  !  Mr.  Jarvis  has 
truly  said,  that,  if  Jesus  had  had  such  a  father,  he 
would  have  made  him  of  some  good  before  he  made  him 
comfortable :  that  is  just  the  way  your  Father  in  heaven 
is  acting  with  you.  Not  many  of  you  would  say  you 
are  of  mucli  good  yet ;  but  you  would  like  to  be  better. 
And  yet,  —  put  it  to  yourselves,  —  do  you  not  grumble 
at  every  thing  that  comes  to  you  that  you  don't  like,  and 
call  it  bad  luck,  and  worse  —  yes,  even  when  you  know 
it  comes  of  your  own  fault,  and  nobody  else's  ?  You 
think  if  you  had  only  this  or  that  to  make  you  comfort- 
able, you  would  be  content ;  and  you  call  it  very  hard 
that  So-and-so  should  be  getting  on  well,  and  saving 
money,  and  you  down  on  your  luck,  as  you  say.  Some 
of  you  even  grumble  that  your  neighbors'  children 
should  be  healthy  when  yours  are  pining.  You  would 
allow  that  you  are  not  of  much  good  yet ;  but  you  forget 
that  to  make  you  comfortable  as  you  are  would  be  the 
same  as  to  pvill  out  Joseph's  misfitted  thrones  and  doors, 
and  make  his  misshapen  buckets  over  again  for  him. 
That  you  think  so  absurd  that  you  can't  believe  tlie 
story  a  bit ;  but  you  would  be  helped  out  of  all  your 
troubles,  even  those  you  bring  on  yourselves,  not  thinking 
what  the  certain  consequence  would  be,  namely,  that  you 
would  grow  of  less  and  less  value,  until  ^^ou  were  of  no 
good,  either  to  God  or  man.  If  you  think  about  it,  you 
will  see  that  I  am  right.  When,  for  instance,  are  you 
most  willing  to  do  right?  When  are  you  most  ready  to 
hear  about  good  things  ?  Wlien  are  you  most  inclined 
to  pray  to  God?  When  you  have  plenty  of  money  in 
your  pockets,  or  when  you  are  in  want?  when  you  have 
had  a  good  dinner,  or  when  you  have  not  enough  to  get 
one  ?  when  you  are  in  jolly  health,  or  when  the  life 
seems  ebbing  out  of  you  in  misery  and  pain  ?  No  mat- 
ter that  you  may  have  brought  it  on  yourselves;  it  is  no 
less  God's  way  of  bringing  you  back  to  him,  for  he  de- 
crees that  suffering  shall  follow  sin :   it  is  just  then  you 


2G2  THE    VICAR'S  DAIKUITER. 

most  need  it ;  and,  if  it  drives  you  to  God,  that  is  its  end, 
and  there  will  he  an  end  of  it.  The  prodigal  was  him- 
self to  hlame  for  the  want  that  made  him  a  beggar  at  the 
swine's  trough;  yet  that  want  was  the  greatest  blessing 
God  could  give  to  him,  for  it  drove  him  home  to  his 
father. 

"  But  some  of  you  will  say  j^ou  are  no  prodigals  ;  nor 
is  it  your  fault  that  you  find  yourselves  in  sucli  difficul- 
ties that  life  seems  hard  to  you.  It  would  be  very 
wrong  in  me  to  set  myself  up  as  your  judge,  and  to  tell 
you  that  it  teas  your  fault.  If  it  is,  God  will  let  you 
know  it.  But  if  it  be  not  your  fault,  it  does  not  follow 
that  3^ou  need  the  less  to  be  driven  back  to  God.  It  is 
not  only  in  punishment  of  our  sins  that  we  are  made  to 
suffer :  God's  runaway  children  must  be  brought  back 
to  their  home  and  their  blessedness,  —  back  to  their  Fa- 
ther in  heaven.  It  is  not  always  a  sign  that  God  is 
displeased  with  us  when  he  makes  us  suffer.  '  Wliom 
the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth,  and  scourgeth  every  son 
whom  he  receiveth.  If  ye  endure  chastening,  God  deal- 
eth  with 'you  as  with  sons.'  But  instead  of  talking 
more  about  it,  I  must  take  it  to  myself,  and  learn  not  to 
grumble  when  my  plans  fail." 

"  That's  what  yoic  never  goes  and  does,  grannie," 
growled  a  voice  from  somewhere. 

I  learned  afterwards  it  was  that  of  a  young  tailor,  who 
was  constantly  quarrelling  with  his  mother. 

"I  think  I  have  given  up  grumbling  at  my  ciicum- 
stances,"  she  rejoined;  "but  then  I  have  nothing  to 
grumble  at  in  them.  I  haven't  known  hunger  or  cold 
for  a  great  many  years  now.  But  I  do  feel  discontented 
at  times  when  I  see  some  of  you  not  getting  better  so 
fast  as  I  should  like.  I  ought  to  have  j^atience,  remem- 
bering how  patient  God  is  with  my  conceit  and  stupidity, 
and  not  expect  too  much  of  you.  Still,  it  can't  be  wrong 
to  wish  that  you  tried  a  good  deal  more  to  do  what  he 
wants  of  you.  Why  should  his  ciiildren  not  be  his 
friends  ?  If  you  would  but  give  yourselves  up  to  him, 
you  would  find  his  yoke  so  easy,  his  burden  so  light! 
But  you  do  it  half  only,  and  some  of  you  not  at  all. 


» 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  2G3 

"  Now,  however,  tliat  we  have  got  a  lesson  from  a  false 
gospel,  we  may  as  well  get  one  from  the  true." 

As  she  spoke,  she  turned  to  her  New  Testament  which 
lay  beside  her.     But  Jarvis  interrupted  her. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  stuff"  you  was  a  readin'  of  to 
us,  grannie  ?  "  he  asked. 

"The  chapter  I  read  to  you,"  she  answered,  "is  part 
of  a  pretended  gospel,  called,  '  The  First  Gospel  of  the 
Infancy  of  Jesus  Christ.'  I  can't  tell  you  who  wrote  it, 
or  how  it  came  to  be  written.  All  I  can  say  is,  that, 
ver}'  early  in  the  history  of  the  church,  there  were  people 
who  indulged  themselves  in  inventing  things  about  Jesus, 
and  seemed  to  have  had  no  idea  of  the  importance  of 
keeping  to  facts,  or,  in  other  words,  of  speaking  and 
writing  only  the  truth.  All  they  seemed  to  have  cared 
about  was  the  gratifying  of  their  own  feelings  of  love 
and  veneration ;  and  so  they  made  up  tales  about  him, 
in  liis  honor  as  they  supposed,  no  doubt,  just  as  if  he 
had  been  a  false  god  of  the  Greeks  or  Romans.  It  is 
long  before  some  people  learn  to  speak  the  truth,  even 
after  they  know  it  is  wicked  to  lie.  Perhaps,  however, 
they  did  not  expect  their  stories  to  be  received  as  facts, 
intending  them  only  as  a  sort  of  recognized  fiction  about 
him,  —  amazing  presumption  at  the  best." 

"  Did  anybody,  then,  ever  believe  the  likes  of  that, 
grannie  ?  "  asked  Jarvis. 

"  Yes  :  what  I  read  to  you  seems  to  have  been  be- 
lieved within  a  hundred  years  after  the  death  of  the  apos- 
tles. There  are  several  such  writings,  with  a  great  deal 
of  nonsense  in  them,  which  were  generally  accepted  by 
Christian  people  for  many  liundreds  of  years." 

"  I  can't  imagine  howanj'body  could  go  inwentuating 
such  things  !  "said  the  blind  man. 

"  It  is  hard  for  us  to  imagine.  They  could  not  have 
seen  how  their  inventions  would,  in  later  times,  be 
judged  any  thing  but  honoring  to  him  in  whose  honor 
they  wrote  them.  Nothing,  be  it  ever  so  well  invented, 
can  be  so  good  as  the  bare  truth.  Perhaps,  however,  no 
one  in  particular  invented  some  of  them,  but  the  stories 
grew,  just  as  a  report    often   does  amongst  yourselves. 


264  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

Althougli  everybody  fancies  he  or  she  is  only  telling 
just  what  was  told  to  him  or  her,  yet,  hy  degrees,  the 
pin's-point  of  a  fact  is  covered  over  with  lies  upon  lies 
almost  everybody  adding  something,  until  the  report  has 
grown  to  be  a  mighty  falsehood.  Why,  you  had  such 
a  story  yourselves,  not  so  very  long  ago,  about  one  of 
your  best  friends!  One  comfort  is,  such  a  storj?^  is  sure 
not  to  be  consistent  with  itself;  it  is  sure  to  show  its 
own  falsehood  to  any  one  who  is  good  enough  to  doubt 
it,  and  who  will  look  into  it,  and  examine  it  well.  You 
don't,  for  instance,  want  any  other  proof  than  the  things 
themselves  to  show  you  that  what  I  have  just  read  to 
you  can't  be  true." 

"  But  then  it  puzzles  me  to  think  how  anj'body  could 
believe  them,"  said  the  blind  man. 

"Many  of  the  early  Christians  were  so  childishly  sim- 
ple that  they  would  believe  almost  any  thing  that  was 
told  them.  In  a  time  when  such  nonsense  could  be 
M'ritten,  it  is  no  great  wonder  there  should  be  man}'  who 
could  believe  it." 

"  Then,  what  was  their  faith  worth,"  said  the  blind 
man,  "  if  they  believed  false  and  true  all  the  same  ?  " 

"  Worth  no  end  to  them,"  answered  Marion  with 
eagerness  ;  "  for  all  the  false  things  they  might  believe 
about  him  could  not  destroy  the  true  ones,  or  prevent 
them  from  believing  in  Jesus  himself,  and  bettering  their 
ways  for  his  sake.  And  as  they  grew  better  and  better, 
by  doing  what  he  told  them,  they  would  gradually  come 
to  disbelieve  this  and  that  foolish  or  bad  thing." 

"  But  wouldn't  that  make  them  stop  believing  in  him 
altogether  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  would  make  them  hold  the  firmer 
to  all  that  they  saw  to  be  true  about  him.  There  are 
many  people,  I  presume,  in  other  countries,  who  believe 
those  stories  still ;  but  all  the  Christians  I  know  have 
cast  aside  every  one  of  those  writings,  and  keep  only  to 
those  we  call  the  Gospels.  To  throw  away  what  is  not 
true,  because  it  is  not  true,  will  always  help  the  heart  to 
be  truer;  will  make  it  the  more  anxious  to  cleave  to 
what  it  sees  must  be  true.     Jesus  remonstrated  with  the 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  265 

Jews  that  they  would  not  of  themselves  judge  what  was 
right ;  and  the  man  who  lets  God  teach  him  is  made 
abler  to  judge  what  is  right  a  thousand-fold." 

"  Then  don't  you  think  it  likely  this  much  is  true, 
grannie,"  —  said  Jarvis,  probably  interested  in  the  ques- 
tion, in  part  at  least,  from  the  fact  that  he  was  himself 
a  carpenter,  —  "  that  he  worked  with  his  father,  and 
helped  him  in  his  trade  ?  " 

"I  do,  indeed,"  answered  Marion.  "I  believe  that 
is  the  one  germ  of  truth  in  the  whole  story.  It  is  possi- 
ble even  that  some  incidents  of  that  part  of  his  life  may 
have  been  handed  down  a  little  way,  at  length  losing  all 
their  shape,  however,  and  turning  into  the  kind  of  thing 
I  read  to  you.  Not  to  mention  that  they  called  him  the 
carpenter,  is  it  likely  he  who  came  down  for  the  express 
purpose  of  being  a  true  man  would  see  his  father  toiling 
to  feed  him  and  his  mother  and  his  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  go  idling  about,  instead  of  putting  to  his  hand  to 
help  him  ?     Would  that  have  been  like  him  ?  ' ' 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Jarvis. 

But  a  doubtful  murmur  came  from  the  blind  man, 
which  speedily  took  shape  in  the  following  remark :  — 

"  I  can't  help  thinkin',  grannie,  of  one  time  —  you 
read  it  to  us  not  long  ago  —  when  he  laid  down  in  the 
boat  and  went  fast  asleep,  takin'  no  more  heed  o'  them 
a  slavin'  o'  theirselves  to  death  at  their  oars,  than  if 
they'd  been  all  comfortable  like  hisself;  that  wasn't 
much  like  takin'  of  his  share  —  was  it  now  ?" 

"John  Evans,"  returned  Marion  with  severity,  "it  is 
quite  right  to  put  any  number  of  questions,  and  express 
any  number  of  doubts  you  honestly  feel  ;  but  you  have 
DO  right  to  make  remarks  you  would  not  make  if  you 
were  anxious  to  be  as  fair  to  another  as  you  would  have 
another  be  to  you.  Have  you  considered  that  he  had 
been  working  hard  all  day  long,  and  was,  in  fact,  worn 
out?  You  don't  think  what  hard  work  it  is,  and  how 
exhausting,  to  speak  for  hours  to  great  multitudes,  and 
in  the  open  air  too,  where  your  voice  has  no  help  to 
Znake  it  heard.  And  that's  not  all;  for  he  had  most 
likely  been  healing   many  as  well ;  and  I  believe  every 

23 


266  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

time  the  power  went  out  of  liim  to  cure,  he  suffered 
in  the  relief  he  gave  ;  it  left  him  weakened,  — with  so 
much  the  less  of  strength  to  support  his  labors, —  so  that, 
even  in  his  very  body,  he  took  our  iniquities  and  bare  our 
infirmities.  Would  you,  then,  blame  a  weary  man,  whose 
perfect  faith  in  God  rendered  it  impossible  for  h-m  to  fear 
any  thing,  that  he  lay  down  to  rest  in  God's  name,  and 
left  his  friends  to  do  their  part  for  the  redemption  of  the 
world  in  rowing  him  to  the  otlier  side  of  the  lake,  —  a 
thing  they  were  doing  every  other  day  of  their  lives  ? 
You  ought  to  consider  before  you  make  such  remarks,  Mr. 
Evans.  And  you  forget  also  that  the  moment  they 
called  him,  he  rose  to  help  them." 

"  And  find  fault  with  them,"  interposed  Evans,  rather 
viciously  I  thought. 

"  Yes ;  for  they  were  to  blame  for  their  own  trouble, 
and  ought  to  send  it  away." 

"  What !  To  blame  for  the  storm  ?  How  could  they 
send  tliat  away  ?  " 

"  Was  it  the  storm  that  troubled  them  then  ?  It  was 
their  own  fear  of  it.  The  storm  could  not  have  troubled 
tliem  if  they  had  had  faith  in  their  Father  in  heaven." 

"  T^hey  had  good  cause  to  be  afraid  of  it,  anjdiow." 

"  He  judged  they  had  not,  for  he  was  not  afraid  him- 
self. You  judge  they  had,  because  you  would  have  been 
afraid." 

"  He  could  help  himself,  you  see." 

"  And  they  couldn't  trust  either  him  or  his  Father, 
notwithstanding  all  he  had  done  to  manifest  himself 
and  his  Father  to  them.  Therefore  he  saw  that  the 
storm  about  them  was  not  the  thing  that  most  required 
rebuke." 

"  I  never  pretended  to  much  o'  the  sort,"  growled 
Evans.      "  Quite  the  contrairy." 

"  And  why  ?  Because,  like  an  honest  man,  you 
wouldn't  pretend  to  what  you  hadn't  got.  But,  if  you 
carried  your  lionesty  far  enough,  you  would  have  taken 
pains  to  understand  our  Lord  first.  Like  his  other 
judges,  you  condemn  him  beforehand.  You  will  not 
call  that  honesty  ?  " 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  267 

"  I  don't  see  what  right  you've  got  to  badger  me  like 
this  before  a  congregation  o'  people,"  said  the  blind  man, 
rising  in  indignation.  "  If  I  ain't  got  my  heyesight, 
I  ha'  got  my  feelin's." 

"  And  do  you  think  he  has  no  feelings,  Mr.  Evans  ? 
You  have  spoken  evil  of  him :  I  have  spoken  but  the 
truth  of  you  !  " 

"  Come,  come,  grannie,"  said  the  blind  man,  quailing 
a  little  ;  *'  don't  talk  squash.  I'm  a  livin'  man  afore  the 
heyes  o'  this  here  company,  an'  he  ain't  nowheres. 
Bless  you,  he  don't  mind  !  " 

"  He  minds  so  much,"  returned  Marion,  in  a  subdued 
voice,  which  seemed  to  tremble  with  coming  tears,  "  that 
he  will  never  rest  until  you  think  fairly  of  him.  And 
he  is  here  now ;  for  he  said,  '  I  am  with  you  alway,  to 
the  end  of  the  world  ; '  and  he  has  heard  every  word  you 
have  been  saj'ing  against  him.  He  isn't  angry  like  me  ; 
but  your  words  may  well  make  him  feel  sad  —  for  your 
sake,  John  Evans  —  tliat  you  should  be  so  unfair." 

She  leaned  her  forehead  on  her  hand,  and  was  silent. 
A  subdued  murmur  arose.  The  blind  man,  having  stood 
irresolute  for  a  moment,  began  to  make  for  the  door, 
saying,  — 

"  1  think  I'd  better  go.     I  ain't  wanted  here." 

''If  you  are  an  honest  man,  Mr.  Evans,"  returned 
Marion,  rising,  "  you  will  sit  down  and  hear  the  case  out." 

With  a  waving,  fin-like  motion  of  both  his  hands, 
Evans  sank  into  his  seat,  and  spoke  no  word. 

After  but  a  moment's  silence,  she  resumed  as  if  there 
had  been  no  interruption. 

"  That  he  should  sleep,  then,  during  the  storm  was  a 
very  diiferent  thing  from  declining  to  assist  his  father 
in  his  workshop  :  just  as  the  rebuking  of  the  sea  was  a 
very  different  thing  from  hiding  up  his  father's  bad  work 
in  miracles.  Had  that  father  been  in  danger,  he  might 
perhaps  have  aided  him  as  he  did  the  disciples.     But  "  — • 

"  Why  do  you  say  perhaps,  grannie  ?  "  interrupted  a 
bright-eyed  boy  who  sat  on  the  hob  of  the  empty  grate. 
"Wouldn't  he  help  his  father  as  soon  as  his  disciples  ?" 

"  Certainly,  if  it  was  good  for  his  father ;  certainly 


268  TEE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

not,  if  it  was  not  good  for  him:  therefore  I  say  per- 
haps. But  now,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  the  joiner, 
"Mr.  Jarvis,  will  you  tell  me  whether  you  think  the 
work  of  the  carpenter's  son  would  have  been  in  any  way 
distinguishable  from  that  of  another  man  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  grannie.  He  wouldn't  want  to 
be  putting  of  a  private  mark  upon  it.  He  wouldn't 
want  to  be  showing  of  it  off —  would  he  ?  He'd  use  his 
tools  like  another  man,  anyhow." 

"  All  that  we  may  be  certain  of.  He  came  to  us  a 
man,  to  live  a  man's  life,  and  do  a  man's  work.  But 
just  think  a  moment.  I  will  put  the  question  again  : 
l)o  you  suppose  you  would  have  been  able  to  distinguish 
his  work  from  that  of  any  other  man  ?  " 

A  silence  followed.  Jarvis  was  thinking.  He  and 
the  blind  man  were  of  the  few  that  can  think.  At  last 
his  face  brightened. 

"  Well,  grannie,"  he  said,  "  I  tliiuk  it  would  be  very 
difficult  in  any  thing  easy,  but  very  easy  in  any  thing 
difficult." 

He  laughed,  —  for  he  had  not  perceived  the  paradox 
before  uttering  it. 

"  Explain  yourself,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Jarvis.  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  understand  you,"  said  Marion. 

"  I  mean,  that,  in  an  easy  job,  which  any  fair  work- 
man could  do  well  enough,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  tell 
his  work.  But,  where  the  job  was  difficult,  it  would  be 
so  much  better  done,  that  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  see 
the  better  hand  in  it." 

"1  understand  you,  then,  to  indicate,  that  the  chief 
distinction  would  lie  in  the  quality  of  the  work;  that 
whatever  he  did,  he  would  do  in  such  a  thorough  man- 
ner, that  over  the  whole  of  what  he  turned  out,  as  you 
would  say,  the  perfection  of  the  work  would  be  a  striking 
characteristic.      Is  that  it?" 

"  That  is  what  I  do  mean,  grannie." 

"  And  that  is  just  the  conclusion  I  had  come  to  my- 
self." 

"  /  should  like  to  say  just  one  word  to  it,  grannie,  so 
be  you  won't  cut  up  crusty,"  said  the  blind  man. 


M.. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  26(^ 

"If  you  are  fair,  I  sha'n't  be  crusty,  Mr.  Evans.  At 
least,  I  hope  not,"  said  Marion. 

"  Well,  it's  this  :  Mr.  Jarvis  he  say  as  how  the  jiner- 
work  done  by  Jesus  Christ  would  be  better  done  than 
e'er  another  man's,  —  tip-top  fashion,  — and  there  would 
lie  the  differ.  JS"ow,  it  do  seem  to  me  as  I've  got  no  call 
to  come  to  that  'ere  conclusion.  You  been  tellin'  on  us, 
grannie,  I  donno  how  long  now,  as  how  Jesus  Christ 
was  the  Son  of  God,  and  that  he  come  to  do  the  works 
of  God, —  down  here  like,  afore  our  faces,  that  we  might 
see  God  at  work,  by  way  of.  Now,  I  ha'  notliin'  to  say 
agin  that:  it  may  be,  or  it  mayn't  be — I  can't  tell. 
But  if  that  be  the  way  on  it,  then  I  don't  see  how  Mr. 
Jarvis  can  be  right ;  the  two  don't  curryspond,  —  not 
by  no  means.  For  the  works  o'  God  —  there  ain't  one 
on'  em  as  I  can  see  downright  well  managed  — tip-top 
jiner's  work,  as  I  may  say  ;  leastways,  — Now  stop  a  bit, 
grannie  ;  don't  trip  a  man  up,  and  then  say  as  he  fell  over 
his  own  dog,  —  leastways,  I  don't  say  about  the  moon  an' 
the  stars  an'  that ;  I  dessay  the  sun  he  do  get  up  the 
werry  moment  he's  called  of  a  mornin',  an'  the  moon 
when  she  ought  to  for  her  night-work,  —  I  ain't  no 
'stronomer  strawnry,  and  I  ain't  heerd  no  complaints 
about  them;  but  I  do  say  as  how,  down  here,  we  ha'  got 
most  uncommon  bad  weather  more'n  at  times ;  and  the 
walnuts  they  turns  out,  every  now  an'  then,  full  o'  mere 
dirt ;  an'  the  oranges  awful.  There  'ain't  been  a  good 
crop  o'  hay,  they  tells  me,  for  many's  the  year.  An'  i' 
furren  parts,  what  wi'  earthquakes  an'  wolcanies  an' 
lions  an'  tigers,  an'  savages  as  eats  their  wisiters,  an' 
chimley-pots  blowin'  about,  an'  ships  goin'  down,  an' 
fathers  o'  families  choked  an'  drownded  an'  burnt  i'  coal- 
pits by  the  hundred,  —  it  do  seem  to  me  that  if  his 
jinerin'  hadn't  been  tip-top,  it  would  ha'  been  but  like 
the  rest  on  it.  There,  grannie  !  Mind,  I  mean  no  offence  ; 
an'  I  don't  doubt  you  ha'  got  somethink  i'  your  weskit 
pocket  as  '11  turn  it  all  topsy-turvy  in  a  moment.  Any- 
how, I  won't  j)urtend  to  nothink,  and  that's  how  it  look 
to  me." 

"I  admit,"  said  Marion,  "that  the  objection  is  a  rea- 
23* 


270  TUB    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

sonable  one.  But  why  do  you  put  it,  Mr.  Evans,  in  such 
a  triumphant  way,  as  if  you  were  rejoiced  to  think  it 
admitted  of  no  answer,  and  believed  tlie  world  would  be 
ever  so  much  better  off  if  the  storms  and  the  tigers  had 
it  all  their  own  way,  and  there  were  no  God  to  look  after 
things." 

"  Now,  you  ain't  fair  to  me,  grannie.  Not  avin'  of  my 
h eyesight  like  the  rest  on  ye,  I  may  be  a  bit  fond  of  a 
harguyment ;  biit  I  tries  to  hit  fair,  and  when  I  hears 
what  ain't  logic,  I  can  no  more  help  comin'  down  upon 
it  than  I  can  help  breathin'  the  air  o'  heaven.  And 
why  shouldn't  I  ?  There  ain't  no  law  agin  a  harguyment. 
An'  more  an'  over,  it  do  seem  to  me  as  how  ^^ou  and 
Mr.  Jarvis  is  wrong  i'  it  is  harguyment." 

"  If  I  was  too  sharp  upon  you,  Mr.  Evans,  and  I  may 
have  been,"  said  Marion,  "  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  It's  granted,  grannie." 

"  I  don't  mean,  you  know,  that  I  give  in  to  what  3'ou 
say,  —  not  one  bit." 

"  I  didn't  expect  it  of  you.  I'm  a-waitin'  here  for  you 
to  knock  me  down." 

"  I  don't  think  a  mere  victory  is  worth  the  breath 
spent  upon  it,"  said  Marion.  "  But  we  should  all  be 
glad  to  get  or  give  more  light  upon  any  subject,  if  it  be 
by  losing  ever  so  many  arguments.  Allow  me  just  to 
put  a  question  or  two  to  Mr.  Jarvis,  because  he's  a  joiner 
himself — and  that's  a  great  comfort  to  me  to-night: 
What  would  you  say,  Mr.  Jarvis,  of  a  master  who  planed 
the  timber  he  used  for  scaffolding,  and  tied  the  cross- 
pieces  with  ropes  of  silk  ?  " 

"I  should  say  he  was  a  fool,  grannie,  — not  only  for 
losin'  of  his  money  and  his  labor,  but  for  weakenin'  of 
his  scaffoldin', — summat  like  the  old  throne-maker  i' 
that  chapter,  I  should  say." 

"  What's  the  object  of  a  scaffold,  Mr.  Jarvis  ?  " 

"  To  get  at  something  else  by  means  of,  —  say  build  a 
liouse." 

"  Then,  so  long  as  the  house  was  going  up  all  right, 
the  probability  is  there  wouldn't  be  much  amiss  with 
the  scaffold?" 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  271 

"  Certainly,  provided  it  stood  till  it  was  taken  down." 

"And  now,  Mr.  Evans,"  she  said  next,  turning  to  the 
blind  man,  "  I  am  going  to  take  the  liberty  of  putting  a 
question  or  two  to  3'ou." 

"  All  right,  grannie.     Fire  away." 

'•'  Will  you  tell  me,  then,  what  the  object  of  this  world 
is?" 

"  Well,  most  people  makes  it  their  object  to  get  money, 
and  make  theirselves  comfortable." 

"  But  3^ou  don't  think  that  is  what  the  world  was 
made  for  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  as  to  that,  how  should  I  know,  grannie  ?  And 
not  knowin',  I  won't  say." 

"If  you  saw  a  scaffold,"  said  Marion,  turning  again 
to  Jarvis,  "  would  5'ou  be  in  danger  of  mistaking  it  for 
a  permanent  erection  ?  " 

"Nobody  wouldn't  be  such  a  fool,"  he  answered. 
"  The  look  of  it  would  tell  you  that." 

"  You  wouldn't  complain,  then,  if  it  should  be  a  little 
out  of  the  square,  and  if  there  should  be  no  windows 
in  it  ?  " 

Jarvis  only  laughed. 

"  Mr.  Evans,"  Marion  went  on,  turning  again  to  the 
blind  man,  "  do  3'ou  think  the  design  of  this  world  was 
to  make  men  comfortable  ?  " 

"  If  it  was,  it  don't  seem  to  ha'  succeeded,"  answered 
Evans. 

"  And  3'ou  complain  of  that  —  don't  you  ?  " 

"Well,  yes,  rather,"  —  said  the  blind  man,  adding, 
no  doubt,  as  he  recalled  the  former  part  of  the  evening's 
talk,  —  "  for  harguyment,  ye  know,  grannie." 

"  You  think,  perhaps,  that  God,  having  gone  so  fair 
to  make  this  world  a  pleasant  and  comfortable  place  to 
live  in,  might  have  gone  farther  and  made  it  quite 
pleasant  and  comfortable  for  everybody  ?  " 

"  Whoever  could  make  it  at  all  could  ha'  done  that, 
grannie." 

"  Then,  as  he  hasn't  done  it,  the  probability  is  he  didn't 
mean  to  do  it  ?  " 

"Of  course.     That's  what  I  complain  of." 


272  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Then  he  meant  to  do  something  else  ?  " 
"  It  looks  like  it." 

"  The  whole  affair  has  an  unfinished  look,  you 
think?" 

"I just  do." 

"  What  if  it  were  not  meant  to  stand,  then  ?  What 
if  it  were  meant  only  for  a  temporary  assistance  in  car- 
rying out  something  finished  and  lasting,  and  of  unspeak- 
ably more  importance  ?  Suppose  God  were  building  a 
palace  for  you,  and  had  set  up  a  scaffold,  upon  wliich  he 
wanted  you  to  help  him;  would  it  be  reasonable  in 
you  to  complain  that  you  didn't  find  the  scaft'old  at  all  a 
comfortable  place  to  live  in  ?  —  that  it  was  draughty 
and  cold  ?  This  world  is  that  scaffold  ;  and  if  you  were 
busy  carrying  stones  and  mortar  for  the  palace,  you 
would  be  glad  of  all  the  cold  to  cool  the  glow  of  your 
labor." 

"  I'm  sure  I  work  hard  enough  when  I  get  a  job  as  my 
heyesight  will  enable  me  to  do,"  said  Evans,  missing  the 
f-pirit  of  her  figure. 

"  Yes  :  I  believe  3'ou  do.  But  what  will  all  the  labor 
of  a  workman  who  does  not  fall  in  with  the  design  of 
tlie  builder  come  to  ?  You  may  say  you  don't  under- 
stand the  "design  :  will  you  say  also  that  you  are  under 
no  obligation  to  put  so  much  faith  in  the  builder,  who 
is  said  to  be  your  God  and  Father,  as  to  do  the  thing 
he  tells  you?  Instead  of  working  away  at  the  palace, 
like  men,  will  you  go  on  tacking  bits  of  matting  and  old 
carpet  about  the  corners  of  the  scaffold  to  keep  the 
wind  off,  while  that  same  wind  keeps  tearing  them 
away  and  scattering  them  ?  You  keep  trj'ing  to  live  in 
a  scaffold,  which  not  all  you  could  do  to  all  eternity 
would  make  a  house  of.  You  see  what  I  mean,  Mr. 
Evans  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  ezackly,"  replied  the  blind  man. 
"I  mean  that  God  wants  to  build  you  a  house  where- 
of the  walls  shall  be  goodiiCHS  :  you  want  a  house  where- 
of the  walls  shall  be  comfort.  But  God  knows  that 
such  walls  cannot  be  built, — that  that  kind  of  stone 
crumbles    away  in    the  foolish   workman's    hands.     He 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUCnTER.  273 

would  make  j'ou  comfortable ;  but  neither  is  that  his 
first  object,  nor  can  it  be  gained  without  the  first, 
which  is  to  make^you  good.  He  loves  you  so  much  that 
he  would  infinitely  rather  have  you  good  and  uncom- 
fortable, for  then  he  could  take  you  to  his  heart  as  his 
own  children,  than  comfortable  and  not  good,  for  then 
he  could  not  come  near  you,  or  give  you  an}^  thing  he 
counted  worth  having  for  himself  or  worth  giving  to 
you." 

"  So,"  said  Jarvis,  "  you've  just  brought  us  round, 
grannie,  to  the  same  thing  as  before." 

"  I  believe  so,"  returned  Marion.  "  It  comes  to  this, 
that  when  God  would  build  a  palace  for  himself  to  dwell 
in  with  his  cliildren,  he  does  not  want  his  scaffold  so 
constructed  that  they  shall  be  able  to  make  a  house 
of  it  for  themselves,  and  live  like  apes  instead  of  an- 
gels." 

"  But  if  God  can  do  any  thing  he  please,"  said  Evans, 
"■  he  might  as  well  make  us  good,  and  there  would  be 
an  end  of  it." 

"  That  is  just  what  he  is  doing,"  returned  Marion. 
"  Perhaps,  by  giving  them  perfect  health,  and  every 
thing  they  wanted,  with  absolute  good  temper,  and 
making  them  very  fond  of  each  other  besides,  God 
might  have  provided  himself  a  people  he  would  have  had 
no  difficulty  in  governing,  and  amongst  whom,  in  con- 
sequence, there  would  have  been  no  crime  and  no  strug- 
gle or  suffering.  But  I  have  known  a  dog  with  more 
goodness  tlian  that  would  come  to.  We  cannot  be 
good  without  having  consented  to  be  made  good.  God 
shows  us  the  good  and  the  bad ;  urges  us  to  be  good ; 
wakes  good  thoughts  and  desires  in  us  ;  helps  our  spirit 
with  his  Spirit,  our  thought  with  his  thought :  but  we 
must  yield ;  we  must  turn  to  him ;  we  must  consent, 
yes,  try  to  be  made  good.  If  we  could  grow  good 
without  trying,  it  would  be  a  poor  goodness  :  ice  should 
not  be  good,  after  all ;  at  best,  we  should  only  be  not 
bad.  God  wants  us  to  choose  to  be  good,  and  so  be 
partakers  of  his  holiness ;  he  would  have  us  lay  hold  of 
him.     He  who  has  given  his  Son   to  suffer  for  us  will 


274  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

make  us  suffer  too,  bitterly  if  needful,  that  we  may  be- 
think ourselves,  and  turn  to  him.  He  would  make  us  as 
good  as  good  can  be,  that  is,  perfectly -good ;  and  there- 
fore will  rouse  us  to  take  the  needful  hand  in  the  work 
ourselves,  — rouse  us  by  discomforts  innumerable. 

"  You  see,  then,  it  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  appar- 
ent imperfections  of  the  creation  around  us,  that  Jesus 
should  have  done  the  best  possible  carpenter's  work  ;  for 
those  very  imperfections  are  actually  through  their  im- 
perfection the  means  of  carrying  out  the  higher  creation 
God  has  in  view,  and  at  which  he  is  working  all  the 
time. 

"  Now  let  me  read  you  what  King  David  thought 
upon  this  question," 

She  read  the  hundred  and  seventh  Psalm.  Then  they 
had  some  singing,  in  which  the  children  took  a  delight- 
ful part.  I  have  seldom  heard  children  sing  pleasantly. 
In  Sunday  schools  I  have  always  found  their  voices 
painfully  harsh.  But  Marion  made  her  children  restrain 
their  voices,  and  sing  softly ;  which  had,  she  said,  an  ex- 
cellent moral  effect  on  themselves,  all  squalling  and 
screeching,  whether  in  art  or  morals,  being  ruinous  to 
either. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  singing,  Roger  and  I  slipped 
out.  We  had  all  but  tacitly  agreed  it  would  be  best  to 
make  no  apology,  but  just  vanish,  and  come  again  with 
Percivale  the  following  Sunday. 

Th(j  greater  part  of  the  way  home  we  walked  in 
silence. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  that,  Eoger  ?  "  I  asked  at 
length. 

"  Quite  Socratic  as  to  method,"  he  answered,  and  said 
no  more. 

I  sent  a  full  report  of  the  evening  to  my  father,  who 
was  delighted  with  it,  although,  of  course,  much  was 
lost  in  the  reporting  of  the  mere  words,  not  to  mention 
the  absence  of  her  sweet  face  and  shining  eyes,  of  her 
quiet,  earnest,  musical  voice.  My  father  kept  the  letter, 
and  that  is  how  I  am  able  to  give  the  present  report. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

ABOUT   SERVANTS. 

I  WENT  to  call  on  Lady  Bernard  the  next  day  :  for 
there  was  one  subject  on  which  I  could  better  talk  with 
her  than  with  Marion  ;  and  that  subject  was  Marion 
lierself.  In  the  course  of  our  conversation,  I  said  that 
I  had  had  more  than  usual  need  of  such  a  lesson  as  she 
gave  us  the  night  before,  —  I  had  been,  and  indeed  still 
was,  so  vexed  with  my  nurse. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Lady  Bernard. 

"  She  has  given  me  warning,"  I  answered. 

"  She  has  been  with  you  some  time  —  has  she  not  ?  " 

"  Ever  since  we  were  married." 

"  What  reason  does  she  give  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  she  wants  to  better  herself,  of  course,"  I  re- 
plied, —  in  such  atone,  that  Lady  Bernard  rejoined, — 

"  And  why  should  she  not  better  herself?  " 

"But  she  has  such  a  false  notion  of  bettering  herself. 
I  am  confident  what  she  wants  will  do  any  thing  but  bet- 
ter her,  if  she  gets  it." 

"  What  is  her  notion,  then  ?  Are  you  sure  you  have 
got  at  the  real  one  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  have  noiv.  When  I  asked  her  first,  she 
said  she  was  very  comfortable,  and  condescended  to  in- 
form me  that  she  had  nothing  against  either  me  or  her 
master,  but  thought  it  was  time  she  was  having  more 
wages ;  for  a  friend  of  hers,  who  had  left  home  a  year 
after  herself,  was  having  two  more  pounds  than  she  had." 

"  It  is  very  natural,  and  certainlj'  not  wrong,  that 
she  should  wish  for  more  wages." 

*''  I  told  her  she  need  not  have  taken  such  a  round- 
about way  of  asking  for  an  advance,  and  said  I  would 

275 


276  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

raise  her  wages  with  pleasure.  But,  instead  of  receiving 
the  announcement  with  any  sign  of  satisfaction,  she 
Beemed  put  oiit  by  it ;  and,  after  some  considerable 
amount  of  incoherence,  blurted  out  that  the  place  was 
dull,  and  she  wanted  a  change.  At  length,  however,  I 
got  at  her  real  reason,  which  was  simply  ambition  :  she 
wanted  to  rise  in  the  world,  —  to  get  a  place  where 
men-servants  were  kept,  —  a  more  fashionable  place,  in 
fact." 

"  A  very  mistaken  ambition  certainly,"  said  Lady 
Bernard,  "  but  one  which  would  be  counted  natural 
enough  in  any  other  line  of  life.  Had  she  given  you 
ground  for  imagining  higher  aims  in  her  ?  '' 

"  She  had  been  so  long  with  us,  that  I  thought  she 
must  have  some  regard  for  us." 

''  She  has  probably  a  good  deal  more  than  she  is  aware 
of.  But  change  is  as  needful  to  some  minds,  for  their 
education,  as  an  even  tenor  of  life  is  to  others.  Probably 
she  has  got  all  the  good  she  is  capable  of  receiving  from 
you,  and  there  may  be  some  one  ready  to  take  her  place 
for  whom  you  will  be  able  to  do  more.  However  incon- 
venient it  may  be  for  you  to  change,  the  more  young 
people  pass  through  your  house  the  better." 

"  If  it  were  really  for  her  good,  I  hope  I  shouldn't 
mind." 

"  You  cannot  tell  what  may  be  needful  to  cause  the 
seed  3^ou  have  sown  to  germinate.  It  may  be  necessary 
for  her  to  pass  to  another  class  in  the  school  of  life, 
before  she  can  realize  what  she  learned  in  yours." 

I  was  silent,  for  I  was  beginning  to  feel  ashamed  ;  and 
Lady  Bernard  went  on,  — 

'•'When  I  hear  mistresses  lamenting,  over  some  favor- 
ite servant,  as  marrying  certain  misery  in  exchange  for  a 
comfortable  home,  with  plenty  to  eat  and  drink  and  wear, 
I  alwa3's  think  of  the  other  side  to  it,  namely,  how, 
through  the  instincts  of  his  own  implanting,  God  is  ur- 
ging her  to  a  path  in  which,  by  passing  through  the  fires 
and- waters  of  suffering,  she  may  be  stung  to  the  life  of 
a  true  humanity.     And  such  suffering  is  far  more  ready 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  277 

to  work  its  perfect  work  on  a  girl  who  has  passed  throvigh 
a  family  like  yours." 

'*  I  wouldn't  say  a  word  to  keep  her  if  she  were  going 
to  be  married,"  I  said  ;  "  but  you  will  allow  there  is  good 
reason  to  fear  she  will  be  no  better  for  such  a  change  as 
she  desires." 

"  You  have  good  reason  to  fear,  my  child,"  said  Lady 
Bernard,  smiling  so  as  to  take  all  sting  out  of  the  reproof, 
''that  3^ou  have  too  little  faith  in  the  God  who  cares  for 
your  maid  as  for  you.  It  is  not  indeed  likely  that  she 
will  have  such  help  as  yours  where  she  goes  next;  but 
tlie  loss  of  it  may  throw  her  back  on  herself,  and  bring 
out  her  individuality,  which  is  her  conscience.  Still,  I 
am  far  from  wondering  at  your  fear  for  her,  —  knowing 
well  what  dangers  she  may  fall  into.  Shall  I  tell  you 
what  first  began  to  open  my  eyes  to  the  evils  of  a  large 
establishment?  Wishing  to  get  rid  of  part  of  the  weight 
of  my  affairs,  and  at  the  same  time  to  assist  a  relative 
who  was  in  want  of  employment,  I  committed  to  him, 
along  with  larger  matters,  the  oversight  of  my  house- 
hold expenses,  and  found  that  he  saved  me  the  whole 
of  his  salary.  This  will  be  easily  understood  from  a 
single  fact.  Soon  after  his  appointment,  he  called  on 
a  tradesman  to  pay  him  his  bill.  The  man,  taking  him 
for  a  new  butler,  offered  him  the  same  discount  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  giving  his  supposed  predecessor, 
namely,  twenty-five  per  cent, — a  discount,  I  need  not 
say,  never  intended  to  reach  my  knowledge,  any  more 
than  my  purse.  The  fact  was  patent :  I  had  been  living 
in  a  hotel,  of  which  I  not  only  paid  the  rent,  but  paid  the 
landlord  for  cheating  me.  With  such  a  head  to  an 
establishment,  you  may  judge  what  the  members  rnay 
become." 

"  I  remember  an  amusing  experience  my  brother-in- 
law,  Roger  Percivale,  once  had  of  your  household,"  I  said. 

"  I  also  remember  it  perfectly,"  she  returned.  "  That 
was  how  I  came  to  know  him.  But  I  knew  something 
of  his  family  long  before.  I  remember  his  grandfather, 
%  great  buyer  of  pictures  and  marbles." 

Lady  Bernard  here  gave  me  the  story  from  her  point 

24 


278  THE  VICAR'S  DAVGFITER. 

Df  view ;  but  Roger's  narrative  being  of  necessity  the 
more  complete,  I  tell  the  tale  as  he  told  it  me. 

At  the  time  of  the  occurrence,  he  was  assisting  Mr. 
F.,  the  well-known  sculptor,  and  had  taken  a  share  in 
both  the  modelling  and  the  carving  of  a  bust  of  Lady 
Bernard's  father.  When  it  was  finished,  and  Mr.  F.  was 
about  to  take  it  home,  he  asked  Roger  to  accompany  him, 
and  help  him  to  get  it  safe  into  the  house  and  properly 
placed. 

Roger  and  the  butler  between  them  carried  it  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  were  Lady  Bernard  and  a  company 
of  her  friends,  whom  she  had  invited  to  meet  Mr.  F.  at 
lunch,  and  see  the  bust.  There  being  no  pedestal  yet 
read}',  Mr.  F.  made  choice  of  a  certain  small  table  for 
it  to  stand  upon,  and  then  accompanied  her  ladyship  and 
her  other  guests  to  the  dining-room,  leaving  Roger  to 
uncover  the  bust,  place  it  in  the  proper  light,  and  do 
whatever  more  might  be  necessary  to  its  proper  effect 
on  the  company  when  they  should  return.  As  she  left 
the  room,  Lady  Bernard  told  Roger  to  ring  for  a  servant 
to  clear  the  table  for  him,  and  render  what  other  assist- 
ance he  might  want.  He  did  so.  A  lacke^y  answered 
the  bell,  and  Roger  requested  him  to  remove  the  things 
from  the  table.  The  man  left  the  room,  and  did  not 
return.  Roger  therefore  cleared  and  moved  the  table 
himself,  and  with  difficulty  got  the  bust  upon  it.  Find- 
ing then  several  stains  upon  the  pure  half  transparency 
of  the  marble,  he  rang  the  bell  for  a  basin  of  water  and 
a  sponge.  Another  man  appeared,  looked  into  the  room, 
and  went  away.  He  rang  once  more,  and  y^t  another 
servant  came.  This  last  condescended  to  hear  him  ;  and, 
informing  him  that  he  could  get  what  he  wanted  in  the 
scullery,  vanished  in  his  turn.  By  this  time  Roger  con- 
fesses to  have  been  rather  in  a  rage;  but  what  could  he 
do  ?  Least  of  all  allow  Mr.  F.'s  work,  and  the  likeness 
of  her  ladyship's  father,  to  make  its  debut  with  a  spot 
on  its  nose  ;  therefore,  seeing  he  could  not  otherwise  pro- 
cure what  was  necessarj',  he  sot  out  in  quest  of  the  un- 
known appurtenances  of  the  kitchen. 

It  is  unpleasant  to  find  one's  self  astray,  even  in  a 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  279 

moderately  sized  house  ;  and  Eoger  did  not  at  all  relish 
wandering  about  the  huge  place,  with  no  finger-posts  to 
keep  him  in  its  business-thoroughfares,  not  to  speak  of 
directing  him  to  the  remotest  recesses  of  a  house  "  full," 
as  Chaucer  says,  "of  crenkles."  At  last,  however,  he 
found  himself  at  the  door  of  the  servants'  hall.  Two 
men  were  lying  on  their  backs  on  benches,  with  their 
knees  above  their  heads  in  the  air;  a  third  was  engaged 
in  emptying  a  pewter  pot,  between  his  draughts  tossing 
facetioi  across  its  mouth  to  a  damsel  who  was  removing 
the  remains  of  some  private  luncheon;  and  a  fourth  sat 
in  one  of  the  windows  reading  "  Bell's  Life."  Eoger 
took  it  all  in  at  a  glance,  wliile  to  one  of  the  giants 
supine,  or  rather  to  a  perpendicular  pair  of  white  stock- 
ings, he  preferred  his  request  for  a  basin  and  a  sponge. 
Once  more  he  was  informed  that  lie  would  find  what 
he  wanted  in  the  scullery.  There  was  no  time  to  waste 
on  unavailing  demands,  therefore  he  only  begged  further 
to  be  directed  how  to  find  it.  The  fellow,  without  rais- 
ing his  head  or  lowering  his  knees,  jabbered  out  such 
instructions  as,  from  the  rapidity  with  which  he  delivered 
them,  were,  if  not  unintelligible,  at  all  events  incompre- 
hensible ;  and  Roger  had  to  set  out  again  on  the  quest, 
only  not  quite  so  bewildered  as  before.  He  found  a 
certain  long  passage  mentioned,  however,  and  happily, 
before  he  arrived  at  the  end  of  it,  met  a  maid,  who  with 
the  utmost  civility  gave  him  full  instructions  to  find  the 
place.  The  scullery-maid  was  equally  civil ;  and  Eoger 
returned  with  basin  and  sponge  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  he  speedily  removed  the  too  troublesome  stains 
from  the  face  of  the  marble. 

When  the  company  re-entered,  Mr.  F.  saw  at  once, 
from  the  expression  and  bearing  of  Eoger,  that  some- 
thing had  happened  to  discompose  him,  and  asked  him 
what  was  amiss.  Eoger  having  briefly  informed  him, 
Mr.  F.  at  once  recounted  the  facts  to  Lady  Bernard,  who 
immediately  requested  a  full  statement  from  Eoger  him- 
self, and  heard  the  whole  story. 

She  walked  straight  to  the  bell,  and  ordered  up  every 
one  of  her  domestics,  from  the  butler  to  the  scullery-maid. 


280  .         THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

Without  one  hasty  word,  or  one  bodily  sign  of  the 
anger  she  was  in,  except  the  flashing  of  her  eyes,  she 
told  them  she  could  not  have  had  a  suspicion  that  such 
insolence  was  possible  in  her  house  ;  that  they  had  dis- 
graced her  in  her  own  eyes,  as  having  gathered  such  peo- 
ple about  her  ;  that  she  would  not  add  to  Mr.  Percivale's 
annoyance  by  asking  him  to  point  out  the  guilty  persons, 
but  that  they  might  assure  themselves  she  would  hence- 
forth keep  both  eyes  and  ears  open,  and  if  the  slightest 
thing  of  the  sort  happened  again,  she  would  most 
assuredly  dismiss  every  one  of  them  at  a  moment's  warn- 
ing.    She  then  turned  to  Roger  and  said,  — 

"Mr.  Percivale,  I  beg  your  pnrdon  for  the  insults  you 
have  received  from  my  servants." 

"  I  did  think,"  she  said,  as  she  finished  telling  me  the 
story,  "to  dismiss  them  all  on  the  spot,  but  was  deterred 
by  the  fear  of  injustice.  The  next  morning,  however, 
four  or  five  of  them  gave  my  housekeeper  warning  :  I 
gave  orders  that  they  should  leave  the  house  at  once, 
and  from  that  day  I  set  about  reducing  my  establish- 
ment. My  principal  objects  were  two :  first,  that  my 
servants  might  have  more  work;  and  second,  that  I 
might  be  able  to  know  something  of  every  one  of  them  ; 
for  one  thing  I  saw,  that,  until  I  ruled  my  own  house 
well,  I  had  no  right  to  go  trying  to  do  good  out  of  doors. 
I  think  I  do  know  a  little  of  the  nature  and  character  of 
every  soul  under  my  roof  now ;  and  I  am  more  and  more 
confident  that  nothing  of  real  and  lasting  benefit  can  be 
done  for  a  class  except  through  personal  influence  upon 
the  individual  persons  who  compose  it  —  such  influence, 
I  mean,  as  at  the  very  least  sets  for  Christianity." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

ABOUT    PERCIVALE. 

I  SHOULD  like  much,  before  in  my  narrative  approach- 
ing a  certain  hard  season  we  had  to  encounter,  to  say  a 
few  words  concerning  my  husband,  if  I  only  knew  how. 
I  find  women  differ  much,  both  in  the  degree  and  man- 
ner in  which  their  feelings  will  permit  them  to  talk  about 
their  husbands.  I  have  known  women  set  a  whole  com- 
munity against  their  husbands  by  the  way  in  which  they 
trumpeted  their  praises  ;  and  I  have  known  one  woman 
set  everybody  against  herself  by  the  way  in  which  she 
published  her  husband's  faults.  I  find  it  difficult  to  be- 
lieve either  sort.  To  praise  one's  husband  is  so  like 
praising  one's  self,  that  to  me  if  seems  immodest,  and 
subject  to  the  same  suspicion  as  self-laudation  ;  while  to 
blame  one's  husband,  even  justly  and  openly,  seems  to 
me  to  border  upon  treachery  itself  How,  then,  am  I  to 
discharge  a  sort  of  half  duty  my  father  has  laid  upon  me 
by  what  be  lias  said  in  "  The  Seaboard  Parish,"  con- 
cerning my  husband's  opinions  ?  My  father  is  one  of  the 
few  really  large-minded  men  I  have  yet  known ;  but  I 
am  not  certain  that  he  has  done  Percivale  justice.  At 
the  same  time,  if  he  has  not,  Percivale  himself  is  partly 
to  blame,  inasmuch  as  he  never  took  pains  to  show  my 
father  what  he  was  ;  for,  had  he  done  so,  my  father  of 
all  men  would  have  understood  him.  On  the  other  hand, 
this  fault,  if  such  it  was,  could  have  sprung  only  from 
my  husband's  modest}',  and  his  horror  of  possibly  produ- 
cing an  impression  on  my  father's  mind  more  favorable 
than  correct.     It  is  all  right  now,  however. 

Still,  my  difficulty  remains  as  to  how  I  am  to  write 
about  him.     I  must  encourage  myself  with  the  consider- 

281 


282  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

atiou  that  none  but  our  own  friends,  with  whom,  whether 
they  understood  us  or  not,  we  are  safe,  will  know  to 
whom  the  veiled  narrative  points. 

But  some  acute  reader  may  say,  — 

''  You  describe  your  husband's  picture :  he  will  be 
known  by  that." 

In  this  matter  I  have  been  cunning — I  hope  not 
deceitful,  inasmuch  as  I  now  reveal  my  cunning.  In- 
stead of  describing  anj'^  real  picture  of  his,  I  have  always 
substituted  one  he  has  only  talked  about.  The  picture 
actually  associated  with  the  facts  related  is  not  the  pic- 
ture I  have  described. 

Although  my  husband  left  the  impression  on  my 
father's  mind,  lasting  for  a  long  time,  that  he  had 
some  definite  repugnance  to  Christianity  itself,  I  had 
been  soon  satisfied,  j^erhaps  from  his  being  more  open 
with  me,  that  certain  unworthy  representations  of  Chris- 
tianity, coming  to  him  with  authority,  had  cast  discredit 
upon  the  whole  idea  of  it.  In  the  first  year  or  two  of 
our  married  life,  we  had  many  talks  on  the  subject;  and 
I  was  astonished  to  find  what  things  he  imagined  to  be 
acknowledged  essentials  of  Clu-istiaiiity,  which  have  no 
place  whatever  in  the  New  Testament;  and  I  think  it 
was  in  proportion  as  he  came  to  see  his  own  miscon- 
ceptions, that,  although  there  was  little  or  no  outward 
difference  to  be  perceived  in  him,  I  could  more  and  more 
clearly  distinguish  an  under-current  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing setting  towards  the  faith  which  Christianit}'  preaches. 
He  said  little  or  nothing,  even  when  I  attempted  to 
draw  him  out  on  the  matter;  for  he  was  almost  morbidly 
careful  not  to  seem  to  know  any  thing  he  did  not  know, 
or  to  appe'ar  what  he  was  not.  The  most  I  could  got 
out  of  him  was  — but  I  had  better  give  a  little  talk  1 
had  with  him  on  one  occasion.  It  was  some  time  before 
we  began  to  go  to  Marion's  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  I 
had  asked  him  to  go  with  me  to  a  certain  little  chapel 
in  the  neighborhood. 

"  What !  "  he  said  merrily,  "the  daughter  of  a  clergy- 
man be  seen  going  to  a  conventicle  ?  " 

*'  If  I  did  it,  I  would  be  seen  doing  it,"  I  answered. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  283 

"Don't  3'ou  know  that  the  man  is  no  conciliatory,  or 
even  mild  dissenter,  but  a  decided  enemy  to  Church 
and  State  and  all  that  ?  "  pursued  Percivale. 

"I  don't  care,"  I  returned.  "I  know  nothing  about 
it.  What  I  know  is,  that  he's  a  poet  and  a  prophet  both 
in  one.  He  stirs  up  my  heart  within  me,  and  makes  me 
long  to  be  good.  He  is  no  orator,  and  yet  breaks  into 
bursts  of  eloquence  such  as  none  of  the  studied  orators, 
to  whom  you  profess  so  great  an  aversion,  could  ever 
reach." 

"You  may  well  be  right  there.  It  is  against  nature 
for  a  speaker  to  be  eloquent  throughout  his  discourse, 
and  the  false  will  of  course  quench  the  true.  I  don't 
mind  going  if  you  wish  it.  I  suppose  he  believes  what 
he  says,  at  least." 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  He  could  not  speak  as  he  does 
from  less  than  a  thorough  belief." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Wynnie,  that  he  is  sure  of 
every  thing,  —  I  don't  want  to  urge  an  unreasonable 
question, — but  is  he  sure  that  the  story  of  the  New 
Testament  is,  in  the  main,  actual  fact?  I  should  be 
very  sorry  to  trouble  yonv  faith,  but "  — 

"  My  father  says,"  I  interrupted,  "  that  a  true  faith  is 
like  the  Pool  of  Bethesda:  it  is  when  troubled  that  it 
shows  its  healing  power." 

"  That  depends  on  where  the  trouble  comes  from,  per- 
haps," said  Percivale. 

"  Anyhow,"  I  answered,  "  it  is  only  that  which  cannot 
be  shaken  that  shall  remain." 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you  what  seems  to  me  a  very  com- 
mon-sense difficulty.  How  is  any  one  to  be  sure  of  the 
things  recorded?  I  cannot  imagine  a  man  of  our  time 
absolutely  certain  of  them.  If  you  tell  me  I  have  tes- 
timony, I  answer,  that  the  testimony  itself  requires  tes- 
timony. I  never  even  saw  the  people  who  bear  it; 
have  just  as  good  reason  to  doubt  their  existence,  as 
that  of  him  concerning  whom  they  bear  it ;  have  positively 
no  means  of  verifying  it,  and  indeed,  have  so  little  confi- 
dence in  all  that  is  called  evidence,  knowing  how  it  can 
be  twisted,  that  I  should  distrust  any  conclusion  I  might 


284  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

seem  about  to  come  to  on  the  one  side  or  the  other.  It 
does  appear  to  me,  that,  if  the  thing  were  of  God,  he  would 
have  taken  care  that  it  should  be  possible  for  an  honest 
man  to  place  a  heart}'^  confidence  in  its  record." 

He  had  never  talked  to  me  so  openly,  and  I  took  it  as 
a  sign  that  he  had  been  thinking  more  of  these  things 
than  hitherto.  I  felt  it  a  serious  matter  to  have  to 
answer  such  words,  for  how  could  I  have  any  better  as- 
surance of  that  external  kind  than  Percivale  himself? 
That  I  was  in  the  same  intellectual  position,  however, 
enabled  me  the  better  to  understand  him.  For  a  short 
time  I  was  silent,  while  he  regarded  me  with  a  look  of 
concern,  —  fearful,  I  fancied,  lest  he  should  have  involved 
me  in  his  own  perplexity. 

"  Isn't  it  possible,  Percivale,"  I  said,  ''  tliat  God  may 
not  care  so  much  for  beginning  at  that  end?" 

"I  don't  quite  understand  you,  Wynnie,"  he  returned. 

*' A  man  might  believe  everj^  fact  recorded  concerning 
our  Lord,  and  yet  not  have  the  faith  in  him  that  God 
wishes  him  to  have." 

"  Yes,  certainl}'.  But  will  you  say  the  converse  of 
that  is  true  ?  " 

"  Explain,  please." 

"  Will  you  saj'  a  man  may  have  the  faith  God  cares 
for  without  the  faith  you  say  he  does  not  care  for?" 

"I  didu't  say  that  God  does  not  care  about  our  hav- 
ing assurance  of  the  facts;  for  surely,  if  ever}'  thing 
depends  on  those  facts,  much  will  depend  on  the  degree 
of  our  assurance  concerning  them.  I  only  expressed  a 
doubt  whether,  in  the  present  age,  he  cares  that  we 
sliould  have  that  assurance  first.  Perhaps  he  means  it 
to  be  the  result  of  the  higher  kind  of  faith  which  rests 
in  the  will." 

"  I  don't,  at  the  moment,  see  how  the  higher  faith,  as 
you  call  it,  can  precede  the  lower." 

"It  seems  to  me  possible  enough.  For  what  is  the 
test  of  discipleship  the  Lord  lays  down?  Is  it  not  obe- 
dience ?  '  If  3'e  love  me,  keep  my  commandments.'  '  If 
a  man  love  me,  he  will  keep  my  commandments.'  'I 
never  knew  you  :  depart  from  me,  ye  workers  of  iniquity.' 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  285 

Suppose  a  man  feels  in  himself  that  he  must  have  some 
saviour  or  perish  ;  sup|X)se  he  feels  drawn,  by  conscience, 
by  admiration,  by  early  memories,  to  the  form  of  Jesus, 
dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  ages;  suppose  he  cannot 
be  sure  there  ever  was  such  a  man,  but  reads  about 
him,  and  ponders  over  the  words  attributed  to  him,  until 
he  feels  they  are  the  right  thing,  whether  he  said  them 
or  not,  and  that  if  he  could  but  be  sure  there  were 
such  a  being,  he  would  believe  in  him  with  heart  and 
soul;  suppose  also  that  he  comes  upon  the  words,  'If 
any  man  is  willing  to  do  the  will  of  the  Father,  he  shall 
know  whetlier  I  speak  of  myself  or  he  s^nt  me ; '  sup- 
pose all  these  things,  might  not  the  man  then  saj^  to 
himself,  '  I  cannot  tell  whether  all  this  is  true,  but  I 
know  nothing  tliat  seems  half  so  good,  and  I  will  try  to 
do  tlie  will  of  the  Father  in  the  hope  of  the  promised 
knowledge  '  ?  Do  you  think  God  would,  or  would  not, 
count  that  to  the  man  for  faith  ?  " 

I  had  no  more  to  saj',  and  a  silence  followed.  After 
a  pause  of  some  duration,  Percivale  said,  — 

"I  will  go  with  3'ou,  my  dear;"  and  that  was  all 
his  answer.. 

Wlien  we  came  out  of  the  little  chapel,  —  the  same 
into  which  Marion  had  stepped  on  that  evening  so  mem- 
orable to  her. — we  walked  homeward  in  silence,  and 
reached  our  own  door  ere  a  word  was  spoken.  But, 
when  I  went  to  take  oif  my  things,  Percivale  followed 
me  into  the  room  and  said,  — 

'•'  Whether  that  man  is  certain  of  the  facts  or  not, 
I  cannot  tell  yet ;  but  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  he  be- 
lieves in  the  manner  of  which  yo\x  were  speaking,  — 
that  of  obedience,  Wynnie.  He  must  believe  with  his 
heart  and  will  and  life." 

"  If  so,  he  can  well  afford  to  wait  for  what  light  God 
will  give  him  on  things  that  belong  to  the  intellect 
and  judgment." 

"I  would  rather  think,"  he  returned,  "that  purity  of 
life  must  re-act  on  the  judgment,  so  as  to  make  it  like- 
wise clear,  and  enable  it  to  recognize  the  true  force  of 
the  evidence  at  command." 


286  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  That  is  how  my  fatlier  came  to  believe,"  I  said. 

"  He  seems  to  me  to  rest  his  conviction  more  upon  ex- 
ternal proof." 

"That  is  only  because  it  is  easier  to  talk  about.  He 
told  me  once  that  he  was  never  able  to  estimate  the 
force  and  weight  of  the  external  arguments  until  after  he 
had  believed  for  the  very  love  of  the  eternal  truth  he  saw 
in  the  story.  His  heart,  he  said,  had  been  the  guide  of 
his  intellect." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  would  fain  believe.  But,  0 
Wynnie !  the  pity  of  it  if  that  story  should  not  be  true, 
after  all ! " 

"  Ah,  my  love  !  "  I  cried,  "  that  very  word  makes  me 
siirer  than  ever  that  it  cannot  but  be  true.  Let  us  go 
on  putting  it  to  the  hardest  test ;  let  us  try  it  until  it 
crumbles  in  our  hands,  —  try  it  by  the  touchstone  of 
action  founded  on  its  requirements." 

"  There  may  be  no  other  way,"  said  Percivale,  after 
a  thoughtful  pause,  "  of  becoming  capable  of  recognizing 
the  truth.  It  may  be  beyond  the  grasp  of  all  but  the 
mind  that  has  thus  yielded  to  it.  There  may  be  no 
contact  for  it  with  any  but  such  a  mind.  Such  a  con- 
viction, then,  could  neither  be  forestalled  nor  communi- 
cated. Its  very  existence  must  remain  doubtful  until  it 
asserts  itself.     I  see  that." 


CHAPTER     2XXIL 

MT    SECOND   TERROR. 

"Please,  ma'am,  is  Master  Fido  to  carry  Master 
Zohrab  about  by  the  back  o'  the  neck  ?  "  said  Jemima, 
in  indignant  appeal,  one  afternoon  late  in  November, 
bursting  into  the  study  where  I  sat  with  my  husband. 

Fido  was  our  Bedlington  terrier,  which,  having  been 
reared  by  Newcastle  colliers,  and  taught  to  draw  a  badg- 
er,—  whatever  that  may  mean,  —  I  am  hazy  about  it,  — • 
had  a  passion  for  burrowing  after  any  thing  buried. 
Swept  away  by  the  current  of  the  said  passion,  he  had 
with  his  strong  forepaws  unearthed  poor  Zohrab,  which, 
being  a  tortoise,  had  ensconced  himself,  as  he  thought, 
for  the  winter,  in  the  earth  at  the  foot  of  a  lilac-tree  ;  but 
now,  much  to  his  jeopardy,  from  the  cold  and  the  shock 
of  the  surprise  more  than  from  the  teeth  of  his  friend, 
was  being  borne  about  the  garden  in  triumph,  though 
whether  exactly  as  Jemima  described  may  be  question- 
able. Her  indignation  at  the  inroad  of  the  dog  upon  the 
personal  rights  of  the  tortoise  had  possibly  not  lessened 
her  general  indifference  to  accuracy. 

Alarmed  at  the  danger  to  the  poor  animal,  of  a  kind 
from  which  his  natural  defences  were  powerless  to  pro- 
tect him,  Percivale  threw  down  his  palette  and  brushes, 
and  ran  to  the  door. 

"  Do  put  on  your  coat  and  hat,  Percivale  ! "  I  cried ; 
but  he  was  gone. 

Cold  as  it  was,  he  liad  been  sitting  in  the  light  blouse 
he  had  worn  at  his  work  all  the  summer.  The  stove  had 
got  red-hot,  and  the  room  was  like  an  oven,  while  outside 
a  dank  fog  filled  the  air.  I  hurried  after  him  with  his 
coat,  and  found  him  pursuing  Fido  about  the  garden, 

287 


288  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

tlie  brute  declining  to  obey  his  call,  or  to  di'op  the  tor- 
toise. Percivale  was  equally  deaf  to  my  call,  and  not 
until  he  had  beaten  the  dog  did  he  return  with  the  res- 
cued tortoise  in  his  hands.  The  consequences  wore  seri- 
ous,—  first  the  death  of  Zohrab,  and  next  a  terrible  ill- 
ness to  my  husband.  He  had  caught  cold  :  it  settled  on 
his  lungs,  and  passed  into  bronchitis. 

It  was  a  terrible  time  to  me ;  for  I  had  no  doubt,  for 
some  days,  that  he  was  dying.  The  measures  taken 
seemed  thoroughly  futile. 

It  is  an  awful  moment  when  first  Death  looks  in  at 
the  door.  The  positive  recognition  of  liis  presence  is  so 
different  from  any  vividest  imagination  of  it !  For  the 
moment  I  believed  nothing,  —  felt  only  the  coming  black- 
ness of  absolute  loss.  I  cared  neither  for  my  children, 
nor  for  my  father  or  mother.  Nothing  appeared  of  any 
worth  more.  I  had  conscience  enough  left  to  try  to 
pray,  but  no  prayer  would  rise  from  the  frozen  depths  of 
my  spirit.  I  could  only  move  about  in  mechanical  and 
hopeless  ministration  to  one  whom  it  seemed  of  no  use 
to  go  on  loving  any  more  ;  for  what  was  nature  but  a 
soulless  machine,  the  constant  clank  of  whose  motion 
sounded  only,  "  Dust  to  dust ;  dust  to  dust,"  forevermore? 
But  I  was  roused  from  this  horror-stricken  mood  by  a 
look  from  my  husband,  who,  catching  a  glimpse  of  my 
despair,  motioned  me  to  him  with  a  smile  as  of  sunshine 
upon  snow,  and  whispered  in  my  ear,  — 

"I'm  afraid  you  haven't  much  more  faith  than  myself, 
after  all,  Wynnie." 

It  stung  me  into  life,  — not  for  the  sake  of  my  profes- 
sions, not  even  for  the  honor  of  our  heavenly  Father,  but 
by  waking  in  me  the  awful  thought  of  my  beloved  pass- 
ing through  the  shadow  of  death  with  no  one  beside 
him  to  help  or  comfort  him,  in  absolute  loneliness  and 
uncertainty.  The  thought  was  unendurable.  For  a 
moment  I  wished  he  might  die  suddenly,  and  so  escape 
the  vacuous  despair  of  a  conscious  lingering  betwixt  life 
and  the  something  or  the  nothing  beyond  it. 

"  But  I  cannot  go  with  you  ! "  I  cried ;  and,  forget- 
ting all  my  duty  as  a  nurse,  I  wept  in  agony. 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  289 

"  Perhaps  another  will,  my  Wynnie,  —  one  who  knows 
the  way,"  he  whispered  ;  for  he  could  not  speak  aloud, 
and  closed  his  eyes. 

It  was  as  if  an  arrow  of  light  had  slain  the  Python 
coiled  about  my  heart.  If  he  believed,  J  could  believe 
also;  if  he  could  encounter  the  vague  dark,  /could  en- 
dure the  cheerless  light.  I  was  myself  again,  and,  with 
one  word  of  endearment,  left  the  bedside  to  do  what  had 
to  be  done. 

At  length  a  faint  hope  began  to  glimmer  in  the  depths 
of  my  cavernous  fear.  It  was  long  ere  it  swelled  into 
confidence;  but,  although  I  was  then  in  somewhat  feeble 
health,  my  strength  never  gave  way.  For  a  whole  week 
I  did  not  once  undress,  and  for  weeks  I  was  half-awake 
all  the  time  I  slept.  The  softest  whisper  would  rouse  me 
thoroughly  ;  and  it  was  only  when  Marion  took  my  place 
that  I  could  sleep  at  all. 

I  am  afraid  I  neglected  my  poor  children  dreadfully. 
I  seemed  for  the  time  to  have  no  responsibility,  and  even, 
I  am  ashamed  to  say,  little  care  for  them.  Bnt  then  I 
knew  that  they  were  well  attended  to  :  friends  were  very 
kind  —  especially  Judy  —  in  taking  them  out ;  and  Mar- 
ion's daily  visits  were  like  those  of  a  mother.  Indeed, 
she  was  able  to  mother  any  thing  human  except  a  baby, 
to  whom  she  felt  no  attraction,  —  any  more  than  to  the 
inferior  animals,  for  which  she  had  little  regard  beyond 
a  negative  one  :  she  would  hurt  no  creature  that  was  not 
hurtful ;  but  she  had  scarcely  an  atom  of  kindness  for 
dog  or  cat,  or  an}'  thing  that  is  petted  of  woman.  It  is 
the  only  defect  I  am  aware  of  in  her  character. 

My  husband  slowly  recovered,  but  it  was  months  be- 
fore he  was  able  to  do  any  thing  he  would  call  work. 
But,  even  in  labor,  success  is  not  only  to  the  strong. 
Working  a  little  at  the  short  best  time  of  the  day  with 
him,  he  managed,  long  before  his  full  recovery,  to  paint 
a  small  picture  which  better  critics  than  I  have  thought 
worthy  of  Angelico.      I  will  attempt  to  describe  it. 

Through  the  lighted  windows  of  a  great  hall,  the 
spectator  catches  broken  glimpses  of  a  festive  coM.pany. 
At  the  head  of  the  table,  pouring  out  the  red  wine,  he 

2.5 


290  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

sees  one  like  unto  the  Son  of  man,  upon  whom  the  eyes 
of  all  are  turned.  At  the  other  end  of  the  hall,  seated 
high  in  a  gallery,  with  rapt  looks  and  quaint  yet  homely 
angelican  instruments,  he  sees  the  orchestra  pouring  out 
their  souls  through  their  strings  and  trumpets.  The 
hall  is  filled  with  a  jewelly  glow,  as  of  light  suppressed 
by  color,  the  radiating  centre  of  which  is  the  red  wine 
on  the  table;  while  mingled  wings,  of  all  gorgeous 
splendors,  hovering  in  the  dim  height,  are  suffused  and 
harmonized  by  the  molten  ruby  tint  that  pervades  the 
whole. 

Outside,  in  the  drizzly  darkness,  stands  a  lonely  man. 
He  stoops  listening,  with  one  ear  laid  almost  against 
the  door.  His  half-upturned  face  catches  a  ray  of  the 
light  reflected  from  a  muddy  pool  in  the  road.  It  dis- 
closes features  wan  and  wasted  with  sorrow  and  sick- 
ness, but  glorified  with  the  joy  of  the  music.  He  is  like 
ohe  who  has  been  four  days  dead,  to  whose  body  the 
music  has  recalled  the  soul.  Down  by  his  knee  he  holds 
a  violin,  fashioned  like  those  of  the  orchestra  within ; 
which,  as  he  listens,  he  is  tuning  to  their  pitch. 

To  readers  acquainted  with  a  poem  of  Dr.  Donne's,  — 
'•'Hymn  to  God,  my  God,  in  my  sickness,"  —  this  de- 
scription of  mine  will  at  once  suggest  the  origin  of  the 
picture.  I  had  read  some  verses  of  it  to  him  in  his  con- 
valescence; and,  having  heard  them  once,  he  requested 
them  often  again.     The  first  stanza  runs  thus  :  — 

"  Since  I  am  cominn:  to  that  holy  room 
Where  with  the  clioir  of  saints  forcvermore 
I  shall  be  made  thy  mnsique,  as  I  come, 
I  tune  the  instrument  here  at  the  door  ; 
And  what  I  must  do  then,  think  here  before." 

The  painting  is  almost  the  only  one  he  has  yet  refused 
to  let  me  see  before  it  was  finished ;  but,  when  it  was,  he 
hung  it  up  in  my  own  little  room  off  the  study,  and  I 
became  thoroughly  acquainted  with  it.  I  think  I  love 
it  more  than  any  thing  else  he  has  done.  I  got  him, 
without  telling  him  why,  to  put  a  touch  or  two  to  the 
listening  figure,  which  made  it  really  like  himself. 

During  this  period  of  recovery,  I  often  came  upon  him 


During  this  period  of  reco\ei\,  i  uUeii  came  upon  him  leading  hi»  dicck  New  Testament  " 


f'A^    OF  THK         $^ 

[UHIVEESITTJ 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  291 

reading  his  Greek  New  Testament,  which  he  would  shove 
aside  when  I  entered.  At  length,  one  morning,  I  said  to 
him,  — 

"Are  you  ashamed  of  the  New  Testament,  Percivale  ? 
One  would  think  it  was  a  bad  book  from  the  way  you  try 
to  hide  it." 

"No,  my  love,"  he  said :  "  it  is  only  that  I  am  jealous 
of  appearing  to  do  that  from  suffering  and  weakness  only, 
which  I  did  not  do  when  I  was  strong  and  well.  But 
sickness  has  opened  ni}'  eyes  a  good  deal  I  think  ;  and 
I  am  sure  of  this  much,  that,  whatever  truth  there  is 
here,  I  want  it  all  the  same  whether  I  am  feeling  the  want 
or  not.     I  had  no  idea  what  there  was  in  this  book." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  I  said,  "what  made 
you  take  to  reading  it  ?'" 

"I  will  try.  When  I  thought  I  was  dying,  a  black 
cloud  seemed  to  fall  over  every  thing.  It  was  not  so 
much  that  I  was  afraid  to  die, — although  I  did  dread 
the  final  conflict,  —  as  that  I  felt  so  forsaken  and  lonely. 
It  was  of  little  use  saying  to  myself  that  I  mustn't  be 
a  coward,  and  that  it  was  the  part  of  a  man  to  meet  his 
fate,  whatever  it  might  be,  with  composure  ;  for  I  saw 
nothing  worth  being  brave  about :  the  heart  had  melted 
out  of  me;  there  was  nothing  to  give  me  joy,  nothing 
for  my  life  to  rest  up  on,  no  sense  of  love  at  the  heart 
of  things.  Didn't  you  feel  something  the  same  that  ter- 
rible day  ?  " 

"  I  did,"  I  answered.  "  I  hope  I  never  believed  in 
Death  all  the  time  ;  and  yet  for  one  fearful  moment  the 
skeleton  seemed  to  swell  and  grow  till  he  blotted  out  the 
sun  and  the  stars,  and  was  himself  all  in  all,  whila  the 
life  beyond  was  too  shadowy  to  show  behind  him.  And 
so  Death  was  victorious,  until  the  thought  of  your  lone- 
liness in  the  dark  valley  broke  the  spell  ;  and  for  your 
sake  I  hoped  in  God  again." 

"Audi  thought  with  myself,  —  Would  God  set  his 
children  down  in  the  dark,  and  leave  them  to  cry  aloud 
in  anguish  at  the  terrors  of  the  night  ?  Would  he  not 
make  the  very  darkness  light  about  them  ?  Or,  if  they 
must  pass  through  such  tortures,  would  he  not  at  least 


292  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

let  them  know  tliat  lie  was  with  them  ?  How,  then,  can 
there  be  a  God  ?  Then  arose  in  my  mind  all  at  once  the 
old  story,  how,  in  the  person  of  his  Son,  God  himself  had 
passed  through  the  darkness  now  gathering  about  me ; 
had  gone  down  to  the  grave,  and  had  conquered  death 
by  dying.  If  this  was  true,  this  was  to  be  a  God  indeed. 
Well  might  he  call  on  us  to  endure,  who  had  himself 
borne  the  far  heavier  share.  If  there  were  an  Eternal 
Life  who  would  perfect  my  life,  I  could  be  brave  ;  I  could 
endure  what  he  chose  to  lay  upon  me  ;  I  could  go  whitlier 
he  led." 

"  And  were  you  able  to  think  all  that  when  you  were 
so  ill,  my  love  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Something  like  it,  —  practically  very  like  it,"  he 
answered.  "It  kept  growing  in  my  mind,  —  coming 
and  going,  and  gathering  clearer  shape.  I  thought  with 
myself,  that,  if  there  was  a  God,  he  certainly  knew  that 
I  would  give  myself  to  him  if  I  could ;  that,  if  I  knew 
Jesus  to  be  verily  and  really  his  Son,  however  it  might 
seem  strange  to  believe  in  him  and  hard  to  obey  him,  I 
would  try  to  do  so  ;  and  then  a  verse  about  the  smoking 
flax  and  the  bruised  reed  came  into  my  head,  and  a 
great  hope  arose  in  me.  I  do  not  know  if  it  was  what 
the  good  people  would  call  faith  ;  but  I  had  no  time  and 
no  heart  to  think  about  words :  I  wanted  God  and  his 
Christ.  A  fresh  spring  of  life  seemed  to  burst  up  in  my 
heart ;  all  the  world  grew  bright  again :  I  seemed  to 
love  you  and  the  children  twice  as  much  as  before  ;  a 
calmness  came  down  upon  my  spirit  which  seemed  to  me 
like  nothing  but  the  presence  of  God ;  and,  although  I 
dare  say  you  did  not  then  perceive  a  change,  I  am  cer- 
tain that  the  same  moment  I  began  to  recover." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE    CLOUDS    AFTER   THE   RAIK. 

But  the  clouds  returned  after  the  rain.  It  will  be 
easily  understood  how  the  little  money  we  had  in  hand 
should  have  rapidly  vanished  during  Percivale's  illness. 
While  he  was  making  nothing,  the  expenses  of  the 
family  went  on  as  usual ;  and  not  that  only,  but  many 
little  delicacies  had  to  be  got  for  him,  and  the  doctor  was 
yet  to  pay.  Even  up  to  the  time  when  he  had  been 
taken  ill,  we  had  been  doing  little  better  than  living 
from  hand  to  mouth  ;  for  as  often  as  we  thought  income 
was  about  to  get  a  few  yards  ahead  in  the  race  with 
expense,  something  invariably  happened  to  disappoint  us. 

I  am  not  sorry  that  I  have  no  sj^ecial  faculty  for  saving  ; 
for  I  have  never  known  any,  in  whom  such  was  well 
developed,  who  would  not  do  things  they  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of.  The  savings  of  such  people  seem  to  me  to 
come  quite  as  much  oif  other  people  as  off  themselves ; 
and,  especially  in  regard  of  small  sums,  they  are  in 
danger  of  being  first  mean,  and  then  dishonest.  Cer- 
tainly, whoever  makes  saving  tlie  end  of  her  life,  must 
soon  grow  mean,  and  will  probably  grow  dishonest.  But 
I  have  never  succeeded  in  drawing  the  line  betwixt 
meanness  and  dishonesty :  what  is  mean,  so  far  as  I  can 
see,  slides  by  indistinguishable  gradations  into  what  is 
plainly  dishonest.  And  what  is  more,  the  savings  are 
commonly  made  at  the  cost  of  the  defenceless.  It  is 
better  far  to  live  in  constant  difficulties  than  to  keep  out 
of  them  by  such  vile  means  as  must,  besides,  poison  the 
whole  nature,  and  make  one's  judgments,  both  of  God 
and  her  neighbors,  mean  as  her  own  conduct.  It  is 
nothing  to  say  that  you  must  be  just  before  you  are 

293 


294  THE  VICAR'S  DAUCflTER. 

generous,  for  tliat  is  the  very  point  I  am  insisting  on; 
namely,  that  one  must  be  just  to  others  before  she  is 
generous  to  herself.  It  will  never  do  to  make  join  two 
ends  meet  by  pulling  the  otlier  ends  from  the  hands  of 
those  who  are  likewise  puzzled  to  make  them  meet. 

But  I  must  now  put  myself  at  the  bar,  and  cry 
Peccavi ;  for  I  was  often  wrong  on  the  other  side, 
sometimes  getting  things  for  the  house  before  it  was 
quite  clear  I  could  afford  them,  and  sometimes  buying 
the  best  when  an  inferior  thing  would  have  been  more 
suitable,  if  not  to  my  ideas,  yet  to  my  purse.  It  is,  how- 
ever, far  more  difficult  for  one  with  an  uncertain  income 
to  learn  to  save,  or  even  to  be  prudent,  than  for  one 
who  knows  how  much  exactly  every  quarter  will  bring. 

My  husband,  while  ho  left  the  whole  management  of 
money  matters  to  me,  would  yet  spend  occasionally  with- 
out consulting  me.  In  fact,  he  had  no  notion  of  money, 
and.  what  it  would  or  would  not  do.  I  never  knew  a 
man  spend  less  upon  liimself ;  but  he  would  be  extrava- 
gant for  me,  and  I  dared  hardly  utter  a  foolish  liking  lest 
he  should  straightway  turn  it  into  a  cause  of  shame  by 
attempting  to  gratify  it.  He  had,  besides,  a  weakness 
for  over-paying  people,  of  which  neither  Marion  nor  I 
could  honestly  approve,  however  much  we  might  admire 
the  disposition  whence  it  proceeded. 

Kow  that  I  have  confessed,  I  shall  be  more  easy  in 
my  mind ;  for,  in  regard  of  the  troubles  that  followed, 
I  cannot  be  sure  that  I  was  free  of  blame.  One  word 
more  in  self-excuse,  and  I  have  done :  however  impera- 
tive, it  is  none  the  less  hard  to  cultivate  two  opposing; 
vii'tues  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

While  my  husband  was  ill,  not  a  picture  had  been 
disposed  of;  and  even  after  he  was  able  to  work  a  little, 
I  could  not  encourage  visitors :  he  was  not  able  for  the 
fatigue,  and  in  fact  shrunk,  with  an  irritability  I  had 
never  perceived  a  sign  of  before,  from  seeing  any  one. 
To  my  growing  dismay,  I  saw  my  little  stock  —  wliich 
was  bodily  in  my  hand,  for  we  had  no  banking  account 
—  rapidity  approaching  its  final  evanishment. 

Some  may  think,  that,  with  parents  in  the  position  of 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  295 

mine,  a  temporary  diflBculty  need  have  caused  me  no 
anxiety :  I  must,  therefore,  mention  one  or  two  fact? 
with  regard  to  both  my  husband  and  my  parents. 

In  the  first  place,  although  he  had* as  complete  a  con- 
fidence in  him  as  I  had,  both  in  regard  to  what  lie  said 
and  what  he  seemed,  my  husband  could  not  feel 
towards  my  father  as  I  felt.  He  had  married  me  as  a 
poor  man,  who  yet  could  keep  a  wife ;  and  I  knew  it 
would  be  a  bitter  humiliation  to  him  to  ask  my  father  for 
money,  on  the  ground  that  he  had  given  his  daughter. 
I  should  have  felt  nothing  of  the  kind;  for  I  should  have 
known  that  my  father  would  do  him  as  well  as  me  per- 
fect justice  in  the  matter,  and  would  consider  any  money 
spent  upon  us  as  used  to  a  divine  purpose.  For  he  re- 
garded the  necessaries  of  life  as  noble,  its  comforts  as 
lionorable,  its  luxuries  as  permissible,  —  thus  reversing 
altogether  the  usual  judgment  of  rich  men,  who  in  gen- 
eral like  nothing  worse  than  to  leave  their  hoards  to 
those  of  their  relatives  who  will  degrade  them  to  the 
purchase  of  mere  bread  and  cheese,  blankets  and  clothes 
and  coals.  But  I  had  no  right  to  go  against  my  hus- 
band's feeling.  So  long  as  the  children  had  their  bread 
and  milk,  I  would  endure  with  him.  I  am  confident  I 
could  have  starved  as  well  as  he,  and  should  have  enjoyed 
letting  him  see  it. 

But  there  were  reasons  because  of  which  even  I,  in 
my  fullest  freedom,  could  not  have  asked  help  from  my 
father  just  at  this  time.  I  am  ashamed  to  tell  the  fact, 
but  I  must :  before  the  end  of  his  second  year  at  Oxford, 
just  over,  the  elder  of  my  two  brothers  had,  without  any 
vice  I  firmly  believe,  beyond  that  of  thoughtlessness  and 
folly,  got  himself  so  deeply  mired  in  debt,  both  to  trades- 
people and  money-lenders,  that  my  father  had  to  pay 
two  thousand  pounds  for  him.  Indeed,  as  I  was  well 
assured,  although  he  never  told  me  so,  he  had  to  bor- 
row part  of  the  money  on  a  fresh  mortgage  in  order  to 
clear  him.  Some  hxwyer,  I  believe,  told  him  that  he 
was  not  bound  to  pay :  but  my  father  said,  that,  although 
such  creditors  deserved  no  protection  of  the  law,  he  was 
not  bound  to  give  them  a  lesson  in  honesty  at  the  ex- 


296  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

pense  of  wealveiiing  tlie  bond  between  himself  and  Ins 
son,  for  whose  misdeeds  he  acknowledged  a  large  share 
of  responsibility  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  bound 
to  give  his  son  the  lesson  of  the  suffering  brought  on  his 
famil}'^  by  his  selfishness ;  and  therefore  would  pay  the 
money  —  if  not  gladly,  yet  willingly.  How  the  poor  boy 
got  tlirough  the  shame  and  misery  of  it,  I  can  hardly 
imagine  ;  but  this  I  can  say  for  him,  that  it  was  purely 
of  himself  that  he  accepted  a  situation  in  Ceylon,  in- 
stead of  returning  to  Oxford.  Thitlier  he  was  now  on 
his  way,  with  the  intention  of  saving  all  he  could  in 
order  to  repay  his  father ;  and  if  at  length  he  succeeds 
in  doing  so,  he  will  doubtless  make  a  fairer  start  the 
second  time,  because  of  the  discipline,  than  if  he  had 
gone  out  with  the  money  in  his  pocket. 

It  was  natural,  then,  that  in  such  circumstances  a 
daughter  should  shrink  from  adding  her  troubles  to 
those  caused  by  a  son.  I  ought  to  add,  that  my  father 
had  of  late  been  laying  out  a  good  deal  in  building 
cottages  for  the  laborers  on  his  farms,  and  that  the  land 
was  not  yet  entirely  freed  from  the  mortgages  my  mother 
had  inherited  with  it. 

Percivale  continued  so  weak,  that  for  some  time  I 
could  not  bi'ing  myself  to  say  a  word  to  him  about  money. 
But  to  keep  them  as  low  as  possible  did  not  prevent  the 
household  debts  from  accumulating,  and  the  servants' 
wages  were  on  the  point  of  coming  due.  I  had  been 
careful  to  keep  the  milkman  paid  ;  and  for  the  rest  of  the 
tradesmen,  I  consoled  myself  with  the  certainty,  that,  if 
the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  there  was  plenty  of  furni- 
ture in  the  house  to  pay  every  one  of  them.  Still,  of  all 
burdens,  next  to  sin,  that  of  debt,  I  think,  must  be 
heaviest. 

I  tried  to  keep  cheerful ;  but  at  length,  one  night, 
during  our  supper  of  bread  and  cheese,  which  I  could 
not  bear  to  see  my  poor,  pale-faced  husband  eating,  I 
broke  down. 

''What  in  the  matter,  my  darling?"  asked  Percivale. 

I  took  a  half-crown  from  my  pocket,  and  held  it  out 
on  the  palm  of  my  hand. 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  297 

''  That's  all  I've  got,  Percivale,"  I  said. 

"  Oh  !  that  all  —  is  it  ?  "  he  returned  lightly. 

"  Yes,  —  isn't  that  enough  ?  "  I  said  with  some  indig- 
nation. 

"  Certainly  —  for  to-night,"  he  answered,  "  seeing  the 
shops  are  shut.  But  is  that  all  that's  troubling  you  ?  " 
he  went  on. 

"  It  seems  to  me  quite  enough,"  I  said  again  ;  "  and 
if  you  had  the  housekeeping  to  do,  and  the  bills  to  pay, 
you  would  think  a  solitary  half-crown  quite  enough  to 
make  you  miserable." 

"  Never  mind  —  so  long  as  it's  a  good  one,"  he  said. 
"I'll  get  you  more  to-morrow." 

"  How  can  you  do  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Easily,"  he  answered.  "  You'll  see.  Don't  you 
trouble  your  dear  heart  about  it  for  a  moment." 

I  felt  relieved,  and  asked  him  no  more  questions. 

The  next  morning,  when  I  went  into  the  study  to 
speak  to  him,  he  was  not  there  ;  and  I  guessed  that  he 
had  gone  to  town  to  get  the  money,  for  he  had  not  been 
out  before  since  his  illness,  at  least  without  me.  But 
I  hoped  of  all  things  he  was  not  going  to  borrow  it  of  a 
money-lender,  of  which  I  had  a  great  and  justifiable 
horror,  having  heard  from  himself  how  a  friend  of  his 
had  in  such  a  case  fared.  I  would  have  sold  three-fourths 
of  the  things  in  the  house  rather.  But  as  I  turned  to 
leave  the  study,  anxious  both  about  himself  and  his 
proceedings,  I  thought  something  was  different,  and  soon 
discovered  that  a  certain  favorite  j^ititure  was  missing 
from  the  wall :  it  was  clear  he  had  gone  either  to  sell  it 
or  raise  money  upon  it. 

By  our  usual  early  dinner-hour,  he  returned,  and  put 
into  my  hands,  with  a  look  of  forced  cheerfulness,  two 
five-pound  notes. 

"  Is  that  all  you  got  for  that  picture  ?  "  I  said. 

"  That  is  all  Mr.  w^ould  advance  me  upon  it," 

he  answered.  "I  thought  he  had  made  enough  by  me 
to  have  risked  a  little  more  than  that ;  but  picture-dealers 
—  Well,  never  mind.  That  is  enough  to  give  time  foi 
twenty  things  to  happen." 


298  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGTITEE. 

And  iiG  doubt  twenty  things  did  happen,  but  none  of 
them  of  the  sort  he  meant.  The  ten  pounds  sank 
through  my  purse  like  water  through  graveh  I  paid  a 
number  of  small  bills  at  once,  for  they  pressed  the  more 
heavily  upon  me  that  I  knew  the  money  was  wanted ; 
and  by  the  end  of  another  fortnight  we  were  as  badly 
off  as  before,  with  an  additional  trouble,  which  in  the 
circumstances  was  any  thing  but  slight.  , 

In  conjunction  with  more  than  ordinary  endowments 
of  stupidity  and  self-conceit,  Jemima  was  possessed  of  a 
furious  temper,  which  showed  itself  occasionally  in  out- 
bursts of  unendurable  rudeness.  She  had  been  again 
and  again  on  the  jwint  of  leaving  me,  now  she,  now  T, 
giving  warning;  but,  ere  the  day  arrived,  her  better 
nature  had  always  got  the  upper  hand,  — she  had  broken 
down  and  given  in.  These  outbursts  had  generally  fol- 
lowed a  season  of  better  behavior  than  usual,  and  were 
all  but  certain  if  I  ventured  the  least  commendation  ;  for 
she  could  stand  any  thing  better  than  praise.  At  the 
least  subsequent  rebuke,  self  would  break  out  in  rage, 
vulgarity,  and  rudeness.  On  this  occasion,  however,  I 
cannot  tell  whence  it  was  that  one  of  these  cyclones 
arose  in  our  small  atmosphere;  but  it  was  Jemima,  you 
may  well  believe,  who  gave  warning,  for  it  was  out  of 
my  power  to  pay  her  wages  ;  and  there  was  no  sign  of  her 
yielding. 

My  reader  may  be  inclined  to  ask  in  wliat  stead  the 
religion  I  had  learned  of  my  father  now  stood  me.  I 
will  endeavor  to  be  honest  in  my  answer. 

Every  now  and  then  I  tried  to  pray  to  God  to  deliver 
us ;  but  I  was  far  indeed  from  praying  always,  and  still 
farther  from  not  fainting.  A  whole  day  would  some- 
times pass  under  a  weight  of  care  that  amounted  often 
to  misery  ;  and  not  until  its  close  would  I  bethink  me 
that  I  had  been  all  the  weary  hours  without  God.  Even 
when  more  hopeful,  I  would  keep  looking  and  looking 
for  the  impossibility  of  something  to  happen  of  itself, 
instead  of  looking  for  some  good  and  perfect  gift  to  come 
down  from  the  Father  of  lights ;  and,  when  I  awoke  to 
the  fact,  the  fog  would  yet  lie  so  deep  on  my  soul,  that 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  299 

I  could  not  be  sorry  for  my  idolatry  and  want  of  faith. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  miserable  time.  There  was,  besides, 
one  definite  thought  tliat  always  choked  my  prayers :  I 
could  not  say  in  my  conscience  that  I  had  been  sufficient- 
ly careful  either  in  my  management  or  my  expenditure. 
'■  If,"  I  tliought,  "  I  could  be  certain  that  I  had  done 
my  best,  I  should  be  able  to  trust  in  God  for  all  that 
lies  beyond  my  power ;  but  now  he  may  mean  to  punish 
me  for  my  carelessness."  Then  why  should  I  not 
endure  it  calmly  and  without  complaint?  Alas!  it  was 
not  I  alone  that  thus  would  be  punished,  but  my  children 
ai:^  my  husband  as  well.  Nor  could  I  avoid  coming  on 
my  poor  father  at  last,  who,  of  course,  would  interfere  to 
prevent  a  sale ;  and  the  thought  was,  from  the  circum- 
stances I  have  mentioned,  ver}''  bitter  to  me.  Some- 
times, however,  in  more  faithful  moods,  I  would  reason 
with  myself  that  God  would  not  be  hard  upon  me,  even 
if  I  had  not  been  so  saving  as  I  ought.  My  father  had 
taken  his  son's  debts  on  himself,  and  would  not  allow 
him  to  be  disgraced  more  than  could  be  helped ;  and,  if 
an  earthly  parent  would  act  thus  for  his  child,  would 
our  Father  in  heaven  be  less  tender  with  us  ?  Still,  for 
very  love's  sake,  it  might  be  necessary  to  lay  some  dis- 
grace upon  me,  for  of  late  I  had  been  thinking  far  too 
little  of  the  best  things.  The  cares  more  than  the  duties 
of  life  had  been  filling  my  mind.  If  it  brought  me 
nearer  to  God,  I  must  then  say  it  had  been  good  for  me 
to  be  afilicted ;  but  while  my  soul  was  thus  oppressed, 
how  could  my  feelings  have  any  scope  ?  Let  come  what 
would,  however,  I  must  try  and  bear  it,  —  even  disgrace, 
if  it  was  his  will.  Better  people  than  I  had  been  thus 
disgraced,  and  it  might  be  my  turn  next.  Meantime,  it 
had  not  come  to  that,  and  I  must  not  let  the  cares  of  to- 
morrow burden  to-day. 

Every  day,  almost,  as  it  seems  in  looking  back,  a  train 
of  thought  something  like  this  would  pass  through  my 
mind.  But  things  went  on,  and  grew  no  better.  With 
gathering  rapidity,  we  went  sliding,  to  all  appearance, 
down  the  inclined  plane  of  disgrace. 

Percivale  at  length  asked  Roger  if  he  had  any  money 


300  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

by  him  to  lend  liim  a  little ;  and  he  gave  him  at  once 
all  he  had,  amounting  to  six  pounds, — a  wonderful 
amount  for  Iloger  to  have  accumulated  ;  with  the  help 
of  which  we  got  on  to  the  end  of  Jemima's  month.  The 
next  step  I  had  in  view  was  to  take  my  little  valuables 
to  the  pawnbroker's,  —  amongst  tliem  a  watcb,  whose 
face  was  encircled  with  a  row  of  good-sized  diamonds. 
It  had  belonged  to  my  great-grandmother,  and  my 
mother  had  given  it  me  when  I  was  married. 

We  had  had  a  piece  of  boiled  neck  of  mutton  for 
dinner,  of  which  we,  that  is  my  husband  and  I,  had 
partaken  sparingly,  in  order  that  there  might  be  enough 
for  the  servants.  Percivale  had  gone  out ;  and  I  was 
sitting  in  the  drawing-room,  lost  in  any  thing  but  a 
blessed  reverie,  with  all  the  children  chattering  amongst 
themselves  beside  me,  when  Jemima  entered,  looking 
subdued. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  this  is  my  day,"  she  said. 
"  Have  you  got  a  place,  then,  Jemima  ?  "  I  asked ; 
for  I  had  been  so  much  occupied  with  my  own  affairs 
that  I  had  thought  little  of  the  future  of  the  poor  girl  to 
whom  I  could  have  given  but  a  lukewarm  recommenda- 
tion for  any  thing  prized  amongst  housekeepers. 
"  No,  ma'am.     Please,  ma'am,  mayn't  I  stop  ?  " 
"No,  Jemima.     I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  can't  afford  to 
keep  you.     I  shall  have  to  do  all  the  work  myself  when 
you  are  gone." 

I  thought  to  pay  her  wages  out  of  the  proceeds  of  my 
jewels,  but  was  willing  to  delay  the  step  as  long  as  possi- 
ble ;  rather,  I  believe,  from  repugnance  to  enter  the 
pawn-shop,  than  from  disinclination  to  part  with  the 
trinkets.  But,  as  soon  as  I  had  sjioken,  Jemima  burst 
into  an  Irish  wail,  mingled  with  sobs  and  tears,  crying 
between  the  convulsions  of  all  three,  — 

''  I  thought  there  was  something  wrong,  mis'ess.  You 
and  master  looked  so  scared-like.  Please,  mis'ess,  don't 
send  me  away." 

"  I  never  waiited  to  send  you  away,  Jemima.  You 
wanted  to  go  yourself." 

"  No,  ma'am  ;  that  I  didn't.    I  only  wanted  you  to  ask 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  301 

me  to  stop.  Wirra !  wirra  !  It's  myself  is  sorry  I  was 
so  rude.  It's  not  me  ;  it's  my  temper,  mis'ess.  I  do 
believe  I  was  born  with  a  devil  inside  me." 

I  could  not  help  laughing,  partly  from  amusement, 
partly  from  relief. 

"  But  you  see  I  can't  ask  you  to  stop,"  I  said.  "  I've 
got  no  money,  —  not  even  enough  to  pay  you  to-day  ;  so 
I  can't  keep  jon.^^ 

"  I  don't  want  no  money,  ma'am.  Let  me  stop,  and 
I'll  cook  for  yez,  and  wash  and  scrub  for  yez,  to  the  end 
o'  my  days.  An'  I'll  eat  no  more  than '11  keep  the  life  in 
me.  I  vixist  eat  something,  or  the  smell  o'  the  meat 
would  turn  me  sick,  ye  see,  ma'am  ;  and  then  I  shouldn't 
be  no  good  to  yez.  Please  'm,  I  ha'  got  fifteen  pounds 
in  the  savings  bank :  I'll  give  ye  all  that,  if  ye'll  let 
me  stop  wid  j-e." 

When  I  confess  that  I  burst  out  crying,  my  reader 
will  be  kind  enough  to  take  into  consideration  that  I 
hadn't  had  much  to  eat  for  some  time  ;  that  I  was  there- 
fore weak  in  body  as  well  as  in  mind ;  and  that  this  was 
the  first  gleam  of  sunshine  I  had  had  for  many  weeks. 

'•'  Thank  you  very  much,  Jemima,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  I 
could  speak.  "  I  won't  take  your  money,  for  then  you 
would  be  as  poor  as  I  am.  But,  if  you  would  like  to 
stop  with  us,  you  shall ;  and  I  won't  pay  jo\x  till  I'm 
able." 

The  poor  girl  was  profuse  in  her  thanks,  and  left  the 
room  sobbing  in  her  apron. 

It  was  a  gloomy,  drizzly,  dreary  afternoon.  The 
children  were  hard  to  amuse,  and  I  was  glad  when  their 
bedtime  arrived.  It  was  getting  late  before  Percivale 
returned.  He  looked  pale,  and  I  found  afterwards  that 
he  had  walked  home.  He  had  got  wet,  and  had  to 
change  some  of  his  clothes.  When  we  went  in  to  sup- 
per, there  was  the  neck  of  mutton  on  the  table,  almost 
as  we  had  left  it.  This  led  me,  before  asking  him  any 
questions,  to  relate  what  had  passed  with  Jemima;  at 
which  news  he  laughed  merrily,  and  was  evidently  a 
good  deal  relieved.  Then  I  asked  him  where  he  had 
been. 

26 


302  THE  J^CAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  To  the  city,"  he  answered. 

"Have  you  sold  another  picture?"  I  asked,  with  an 
inward  tribulation,  half  hope,  half  fear;  for,  much  as 
we  wanted  the  money,  I  could  ill  bear  the  thought  of  his 
pictures  going  for  the  price  of  mere  pot-boilers. 

*'No,"   he   replied:    ''the  last  is  stopping    the    way. 

Mr. has   been    advertising    it    as    a  bargain  for  a 

hundred  and  fifty.  But  he  hasn't  sold* it  yet,  and  can't, 
he  says,  risk  ten  pounds  on  another.  Wliat's  to  come  of 
it,  I  don't  know,"  he  added.  "  But  meantime  it's  a  com- 
fort that  Jemima  can  wait  a  bit  for  her  money." 

As  we  sat  at  supper,  I  thought  I  saw  a  look  on  Per- 
civale's  face  which  I  had  never  seen  there  before.  All 
at  once,  while  I  was  wondering  what  it  might  mean, 
after  a  long  pause,  during  which  we  had  been  both  look- 
ing into  the  fire,  he  said,  — 

"  Wynnie,  I'm  going  to  paint  a  better  picture  than 
I've  ever  painted  yet.     I  can,  and  I  will." 

"But  how  are  we  to  live  in  the  mean  time?  "  I  said. 

His  face  fell,  and  I  saw  with  shame  what  a  Job's 
comforter  I  was.  Instead  of  sympathizing  with  his 
ardor,  I  had  quenched  it.  "What  if  my  foolish  remark 
had  ruined  a  great  picture  !  Anyhow,  it  had  wounded 
a  great  heart,  which  had  turned  to  labor  as  its  plainest 
duty,  and  would  thereby  have  been  strengthened  to  en- 
dure and  to  hope.  It  was  too  cruel  of  me.  I  knelt  by 
his  knee,  and  told  him  I  was  both  ashamed  and  sorry  I 
had  been  so  faithless  and  unkind.  He  made  little  of 
it,  said  I  might  well  ask  the  question,  and  even  tried  to 
be  merry  over  it ;  but  I  could  see  well  enough  that  I 
had  let  a  gust  of  the  foggy  night  into  his  soul,  and  was 
thoroughly  vexed  with  myself.  We  went  to  bed  gloomy, 
but  slept  well,  and  awoke  more  cheerful. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE   SUNSHINE. 

As  we  were  dressing,  it  came  into  my  mind  that  I  had 
forgotten  to  give  him  a  blacli-bordered  letter  which  had 
arrived  the  night  before.  I  commonly  opened  his  let- 
ters ;  but  I  had  not  opened  this  one,  for  it  looked  like  a 
business  letter,  and  I  feared  it  might  be  a  demand  for 
the  rent  of  the  house,  which  was  over  due.  Indeed,  at 
this  time  I  dreaded  opening  any  letter  the  writing  on 
which  I  did  not  recognize. 

"  Here  is  a  letter,  Percivale,"  I  said.  "  I'm  sorry  I 
forgot  to  give  it  3'ou  last  night." 

"Who  is  it  from?"  he  asked,  talking  through  his 
towel  from  his  dressing-room. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  didn't  open  it.  It  looks  like  some- 
thing disagreeable." 

"  Open  it  now,  then,  and  see." 

"I  can't  just  at  this  moment,"  I  answered;  for  I 
had  my  back  hair  half  twisted  in  my  hands.  "There 
it  is  on  the  chimney-piece." 

He  came  in,  took  it,  and  opened  it,  while  I  went  on 
with  my  toilet.  Suddenly  his  arms  were  round  me,  and  I 
felt  his  cheek  on  mine. 

"Read  that,"  he  said,  putting  the  letter  into  my 
hand. 

It  was  from  a  lawyer  in  Shrewsbury,  informing  him 
that  his  god-mother,  with  whom  he  had  been  a  great 
favorite  when  a  boy,  was  dead,  and  had  left  him  three 
hundred  pounds. 

It  was  like  a  reprieve  to  one  about  to  be  executed.  I 
could  only  weep  and  thank  God,  once  more  believing  in 
my  Father  in  heaven.      But  it  was  a  humbling  thought, 


304  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

that,  if  he  had  not  thus  helped  me,  I  might  have  ceased 
to  believe  in  him.  I  saw  plainly,  that,  let  me  talk  to 
Percivale  as  I  might,  my  own  faith  was  but  a  wretched 
thing.  It  is  all  very  well  to  have  noble  theories  about 
God ;  but  where  is  the  good  of  them  except  we  actually 
trust  in  him  as  a  real,  present,  living,  loving  being,  who 
counts  us  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows,  and  will  not 
let  one  of  them  fall  to  the  ground  without  him  ? 

"I  thought,  Wynnie,  if  there  was  such  a  God  as  you 
believed  in,  and  with  you  to  pray  to  him,  we  shouldn't 
be  long  without  a  hearing,"  said  my  husband. 

There  was  more  faith  in  his  heart  all  the  time,  though 
he  could  not  profess  the  belief  I  thought  I  had,  than 
there  ever  was  in  mine. 

But  our  troubles  weren't  nearly  over  yet.  Percivale 
wrote,  acknowledging  the  letter,  and  requesting  to  know 
when  it  would  be  convenient  to  let  him  have  the  money, 
as  he  was  in  immediate  want  of  it.  The  reply  was,  that 
the  trustees  were  not  bound  to  pay  the  legacies  for  a 
year,  but  that  possibly  they  might  stretch  a  point  in  his 
favor  if  he  applied  to  them.  Percivale  did  so,  but  re- 
ceived a  very  curt  answer,  with  little  encouragement  to 
expect  any  thing  but  the  extreme  of  legal  delay.  He 
received  the  money,  however,  about  four  months  after; 
lightened,  to  the  great  disappointment  of  my  ignorance, 
of  thirty  pounds  legacy^-duty. 

In  the  mean  time,  although  our  minds  were  much  re- 
lieved, and  Percivale  was  working  away  at  his  new  pic- 
ture with  great  energy  and  courage,  the  immediate 
pressure  of  circumstances  was  nearly  as  painful  as  ever. 
It  was  a  comfort,  however,  to  know  that  we  might  bor- 
'  row  on  the  security  of  the  legacy  ;  but,  greatly  grudging 
the  loss  of  the  interest  which  that  would  involve,  I  would 
have  persuaded  Percivale  to  ask  a  loan  of  Lady  Bernard. 
He  objected:  on  what  ground  do  you  think  ?  That  it 
would  be  disagreeable  to  Lady  Bernard  to  be  repaid  the 
sum  she  had  lent  us  !  He  would  have  finally  consented, 
liowever,  I  have  little  doubt,  had  the  absolute  necessity 
for  borrowing  arrived. 

About  a  week  or  ten  days  after  the  blessed  news,  he 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  305 

had  a  note  from  Mr. ,  whom  he  had  authorized  to 

part  with  the  picture  for  thirty  guineas.  How  much 
this  was  under  its  value,  it  is  not  easy  to  say,  seeing 
tlie  monej'^-value  of  pictures  is  dependent  on  so  many 
things  :  but,  if  the  fairy  godmother's  executors  had  paid 
her  legacy  at  once,  that  picture  would  not  have  been  sold 
for  less  than  five  times  the  amount ;  and  I  may  mention 
that  the  last  time  it  changed  hands  it  fetched  five 
hundred  and  seventy  pounds. 

Mr.  wrote  that  he  had  an  offer  of  five  and  twenty 

for  it,  desiring  to  know  whether  he  might  sell  it  for  that 
sum.  Percivale  at  once  gave  his  consent,  and  the  next 
day  received  a  check  for  eleven  pounds,  odd  shillings; 
the  difference  being  the  borro^ved  amount  upon  it,  its 
interest,  the  commission  charged  on  the  sale,  and  the 
price  of  a  small  picture-frame. 

The  next  day,  Percivale  had  a  visitor  at  the  studio, — 
no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Baddelej',  with  his  shirt-front 
in  full  blossom,  and  his  diamond  wallowing  in  light  on 
his  fifth  finger,  —  I  cannot  call  it  his  little  finger,  for  his 
liands  were  as  huge  as  they  were  soft  and  white,  —  hands 
descended  of  generations  of  laborious  ones,  but  which  had 
never  themselves  done  any  work  beyond  paddling  in 
money. 

He  greeted  Percivale  with  a  jolly  condescension,  and 
told  him,  that,  having  seen  and  rather  liked  a  picture  of 
his  the  other  daj^,  he  had  come  to  inquire  whether  he  had 
one  that  would  do  for  a  pendant  to  it ;  as  he  should 
like  to  have  it,  provided  he  did  not  want  a  fancy  price 
for  it. 

Percivale  felt  as  if  he  were  setting  out  his  children  for 
sale,  as  he  invited  him  to  look  about  the  room,  and 
turned  round  a  few  from  against  the  wall.  The  great 
man  flitted  hither  and  thither,  spying  at  one  after 
another  through  the  cjdinder  of  his  curved  hand,  Per- 
civale going  on  with  his  painting  as  if  no  one  were 
there. 

''  How  much  do  you  want  for  this  sketch  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Baddeley,  at  length,  pointing  to  one  of  the  most 
highly  finished  paintings  in  the  room. 

26* 


306  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  I  put  three  hundred  on  it  at  the  Academy  Exliibi- 
tion,"  answered  Percivale.  "  My  friends  thought  it  too 
little;  hut  as  it  has  been  on  my  hands  a  long  time  now, 
and  pictures  don't  rise  in  price  in  the  keeping  of  the 
painter,  I  shouldn't  mind  taking  two  for  it." 

"  Two  tens,  I  suppose  you  mean,"  said  Mr.  Baddeley. 

"  I  gave  him  a  look,"  said  Percivale,  as  lie  described  the 
interview  to  me  ;  and  I  knew  as  well  as  if  I  had  seen 
it  what  kind  of  a  phenomenon  that  look  must  have 
been. 

"  Come,  now,"  Mr.  Baddeley  went  on,  perhaps  misin- 
terpreting the  look,  for  it  was  such  as  a  man  of  his  prop- 
erty was  not  in  the  habit  of  receiving,  ■'  you  mustn't 
think  I'm  made  of  mone}-,  or  that  I'm  a  green  hand  in 
the  market.  I  know  what  your  })ictures  fetch  ;  and  I'm 
a  pretty  sharp  man  of  business,  I  believe.  What  do  you 
really  mean  to  say  and  stick  to  ?  Keady  money,  you 
know." 

"  Three  hundred,"  said  Percivale  coolly. 
*   "  Why,  Mr.  Percivale  !  "  cried  Mr.  Baddeley,  drawing 
himself  up,  as  my  husband  said,  with  the  air  of  one  who 

knew  a  trick  wrorth  two  of  that,  "  I  paid  Mr. fifty 

pounds,    neither  more  nor  less,   for  a  picture  of  yours 
yesterday  —  a  picture,  allow  me  to  say,  worth  "'  — 

He  turned  again  to  the  one  in  question  with  a  critical 
air,  as  if  about  to  estimate  to  a  fraction  its  value  as  com- 
pared with  the  other. 

"Worth  three  of  that,  some  people  think,"  said  Per- 
civale. 

"  The  price  of  this,  then,  joking  aside,  is  —  ?  " 

"  Three  hundred  pounds,"  answered  Percivale,  —  I 
know  well  how  quietly. 

"  I  understood  you  wished  to  sell  it,"  said  Mr.  Badde- 
ley, beginning,  for  all  his  good  nature,  to  look  offended, 
as  well  he  might. 

"  I  do  W'ish  to  sell  it.  I  happen  to  be  in  want  of 
money." 

"Then  I'll  be  liberal,  and  offer  you  the  same  I  paid 
for  the  other.  I'll  send  you  a  check  this  afternoon  for 
fifty  —  with  pleasure." 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  307 

"  You  cannot  have  that  picture  under  three  hundred." 

"Why!"  said  the  rich  man,  puzzled,  "you  offered 
it  for  two  hundred,  not  five  minutes  ago." 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  pretended  to  think  I  meant  two  tens." 

"  Offended  you,  I  fear." 

*'  At  all  events,  betrayed  so  much  ignorance  of  paint- 
ing, that  I  would  rather  not  have  a  picture  of  mine  in 
your  house." 

"  You're  the  first  man  ever  presumed  to  tell  me  I  was 
ignorant  of  painting,"  said  Mr.  Baddeley,  now  thoroughly 
indignant. 

"  You  have  heard  the  truth,  then,  for  the  first  time," 
said  Percivale,  and  resumed  his  work. 

Mr.  Baddeley  walked  out  of  the  study. 

I  am  not  sure  that  he  was  so  very  ignorant.  He  had 
been  in  the  way  of  buying  popular  pictures  for  some  time, 
jiaying  thousands  for  certain  of  them.  I  suspect  he  had 
eye  enough  to  see  that  my  husband's  would  probably' 
rise  in  value,  and,  with  the  true  huckster  spirit,  was 
ambitious  of  boasting  how  little  he  had  given  compared 
with  what  they  were  really  worth. 

Percivale  in  this  case  was  doubtless  rude.  He  had  an 
insuperable  aversion  to  men  of  IMr.  Baddeley's  class,  — 
men  who  could  have  no  position  but  for  their  money, 
and  who  yet  presumed  upon  it,  as  if  it  were  gifts  and 
graces,  genius  and  learning,  judgment  and  art,  all  in 
one.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  saying  that  the  plutocracy, 
as  he  called  it,  ought  to  be  put  down,  —  that  is,  nega- 
tively and  honestly,  —  by  showing  them  no  more  respect 
than  you  really  entertained  for  them.  Besides,  altliough 
he  had  no  great  favors  for  Cousin  Judy's  husband,  he  yet 
bore  jNIr.  Baddeley  a  grudge  for  the  way  in  which  he  had 
treated  one  with  whom,  while  things  went  well  with 
him,  he  had  been  ready  enough  to  excliange  hospitalities. 
Before  long,  through  Lady  Bernard,  he  sold  a  picture 
at  a  fair  price  ;  and  soon  after,  seeing  in  a  shop-window 

the  one  Mr. had  sold  to  Mr.  Baddeley,  marked  ten 

pounds,  went  in  and  bought  it.     Within  the  year  he  sold 
it  for  a  hundred  and  fifty. 

By  working  day  and  night  almost,  he  finished  his  new 


308  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

picture  in  time  for  tlie  Academy;  and,  as  lie  had  himself 
predicted,  it  proved,  at  least  in  the  opinion  of  all  his 
artist  friends,  the  hest  that  he  had  ever  painted.  It  was 
bought  at  once  for  three  hundred  pounds ;  and  never 
since  then  have  we  been  in  want  of  money. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

WHAT   LADY   BERNARD   THOUGHT    OF   IT. 

My  reader  may  wonder,  that,  in  my  record  of  these 
troubles,  I  have  never  mentioned  Marion.  The  fact  is, 
I  could  not  bring  myself  to  tell  her  of  them ;  partly 
because  she  was  in  some  trouble  herself,  from  strangers 
who  had  taken  rooms  in  the  house,  and  made  mischief 
between  her  and  her  grandchildren  ;  and  partly  because 
I  knew  she  would  insist  on  going  to  Lady  Bernard;  and, 
although  I  should  not  have  minded  it  myself,  I  knew 
that  nothing  but  seeing  the  children  hungry  would  have 
driven  my  husband  to  consent  to  it. 

One  evening,  after  it  was  all  over,  I  told  Lady  Bernard 
the  story.  She  allowed  me  to  finish  it  without  saying  a 
word.  When  I  had  ended,  she  still  sat  silent  for  a  few 
moments  ;  then,  laying  her  hand  on  my  arm,  said,  — 

"  My  dear  child,  you  were  very  wrong,  as  well  as  very 
unkind.     Why  did  you  not  let  me  knovv  ?  " 

"  Because  my  husband  would  never  have  allowed  me," 
I  answered. 

"  Then  I  must  have  a  talk  with  your  husband,"  she 
said. 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  I  replied  ;  "  for  I  can't  help  think- 
ing Percivale  too  severe  about  such  things." 

The  very  next  day  she  called,  and  did  have  a  talk  with 
him  in  the  study  to  the  following  eifect :  — 

"  I  have  come  to  quarrel  with  you,  Mr.  Percivale," 
said  Lady  Bernard. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,"  he  returned.  "  You're  the  last 
person  I  should  like  to  quarrel  with,  for  it  would  imply 
some  unpardonable  fault  in  me." 

"  It  does  imply  a  fault  —  and  a  great  one,"  she  re- 

309 


310  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

joined  ;  "  though  I  trust  not  an  unjiardonable  one.    That 
depends  on  whether  you  can  repent  of  it." 

She  spoke  with  such  a  serious  air,  that  Percivale  grew 
uneas}^  and  began  to  wonder  what  he  could  possibly 
have  done  to  otFend  her.  I  had  told  him  nothing  of 
our  conversation,  wishing  her  to  have  her  own  way  with 
him. 

Wlien  she  saw  him  troubled,  she  smiled. 

"  Is  it  not  a  fault,  Mr.  Percivale,  to  prevent  one  from 
obeying  the  divine  law  of  bearing  another's  burden  ?  " 

"  But,"  said  Percivale,  "  I  read  as  well,  that  every 
man  shall  bear  his  own  burden." 

"  Ah  !  "  returned  Lady  Bernard  ;  "  but  I  learn  from 
Mr.  Conybeare  that  two  different  Greek  words  are  there 
used,  which  we  translate  only  by  the  English  burden. 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  they  are  :  I  can  only  tell  3'ou  the 
practical  result.  We  are  to  bear  one  another's  burdens 
of  pain  or  grief  or  misfortune  or  doubt, — whatever 
weighs  one  down  is  to  be  borne  by  another;  but  the 
man  who  is  tempted  to  exalt  himself  over  his  neighbor  is 
taught  to  remember  that  he  has  his  own  load  of  dis- 
grace to  bear  and  answer  for.  It  is  just  a  weaker  form 
of  the  lesson  of  the  mote  and  the  beam.  You  cannot  get 
out  at  that  door,  Mr.  Percivale.  I  beg  you  will  read  the 
passage  in  your  Greek  Testament,  and  see  if  3'Ou  have 
not  misapplied  it.  You  oiicjht  to  have  let  me  bear  your 
burden." 

"  Well,  you  see,  my  dear  Lady  Bernard,"  returned 
Percivale,  at  a  loss  to  reply  to  such  a  vigorous  assault, 
"  I  knew  how  it  would  be.  You  would  have  come  here 
and  bought  pictures  you  didn't  want;  and  T,  knowing 
all  the  time  you  did  it  only  to  give  me  the  money,  should 
have  had  to  talk  to  you  as  if  I  were  taken  in  by  it ;  and 
I  really  could  not  stand  it." 

"  There  you  are  altogether  wrong.  Besides  depriving 
me  of  the  opportunity  of  fulfilling  a  duty,  and  of  the 
pleasure  and  the  honor  of  helping  you  to  bear  your  bur- 
den, you  have  deprived  me  of  the  opportunity  of  indul- 
ging a  positive  passion  for  pictures.  I  am  constantly 
sompelled  to  restrain  it  lest  I  should  spend  too  much  of 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  311 

the  money  given  me  for  the  common  good  on  my  own 
private  tastes  ;  but  here  was  a  chance  for  me  !  I  might 
have  had  some  of  your  lovely  pictures  in  my  drawing- 
room  now  —  with  a  good  conscience  and  a  happy  heart 
—  if  you  had  only  been  friendly.  It  was  too  bad  of 
you,  Mr.  Percivale !  I  am  not  pretending  in  the  least 
when  I  assert  that  I  am  really  and  thoroughly  disap- 
pointed." 

"  I  haven't  a  word  to  say  for  mj^self,"  returned  Per- 
civale. 

"  You  couldn't  have  said  a  better,"  rejoined  Lady  Ber- 
nard ;  "  but  I  hope  you  will  never  have  to  say  it  agaVi." 

"That  I  shall  not.  If  ever  I  find  myself  in  any  diffi- 
culty worth  speaking  of,  I  will  let  j'ou  know  at  once." 

"  Thank  you.  Then  we  are  friends  again.  And  now 
I  do  think  I  am  entitled  to  a  picture,  —  at  least,  I  think 
it  will  be  pardonable  if  I  yield  to  the  very  strong  tempta- 
tion I  am  under  at  this  moment  to  buy  one.  Let  me 
see :  what  have  you  in  the  slave-market,  as  your  wife 
calls  it?" 

She  bought  "The  Street  Musician,"  as  Percivale  liad 
named  the  picture  taken  from  Dr.  Donne.  I  was  more 
miserable  than  I  ought  to  have  been  -when  I  found  he 
had  parted  with  it,  but  it  was  a  great  consolation  to  think 
it  was  to  Lady  Bernard's  it  had  gone.  She  was  the  only 
one,  except  m^-  mother  or  Miss  Clare,  I  could  have  borne 
to  think  of  as  having  become  its  possessor. 

He  had  asked  her  what  I  thought  a  very  low  price  for 
it ;  and  I  jvidge  that  Lady  Bernard  thought  the  same, 
but,  after  what  had  passed  between  them,  would  not 
venture  to  expostulate.  With  sucli  a  man  as  my  hus- 
band, I  fanc}^,  sh(i  thought  it  best  to  let  well  alone.  Any- 
how, one  day  soon  after  this,  her  servant  brought  him  a 
little  box,  containing  a  fine  brilliant. 

"The  good  lady's  kindness  is  long-sighted,"  said  my 
husband,  as  he  placed  it  on  his  finger.  "  I  shall  be  hard 
up,  though,  before  I  part  with  this.  Wynnie,  I've 
actually  got  a  finer  diamond  than  Mr.  Baddeley  !  It  is 
a  beauty,  if  ever  there  was  one  !  " 

My  husband,  with  all  his  carelessness  of   dress    and 


312  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGnTER. 

adornment,  has  almost  a  passion  for  stones.  It  is  delight- 
ful to  hear  him  talk  about  them.  But  he  had  never 
possessed  a  single  gem  before  Lady  Bernard  made  him 
this  present.  I  believe  he  is  child  enough  to  be  happier 
for  it  all  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

RETROSPECTIVE. 

Suddenly  I  become  aware  that  I  am  drawing  nigh 
the  close  of  my  monthly  labors  for  a  long  year.  Yet  the 
year  seems  to  have  passed  more  rapidly  because  of  this 
addition  to  my  anxieties.  Not  that  I  haven't  enjoyed 
the  labor  while  I  have  been  actually  engaged  in  it,  but 
the  prospect  of  the  next  month's  work  would  often  come 
in  to  damp  the  pleasure  of  the  present;  making  me 
fancy,  as  the  close  of  each  chapter  drew  near,  that  I 
should  not  have  material  for  another  left  in  my  head.  I 
heard  a  friend  once  remark  that  it  is  not  the  cares  of  to- 
day, but  the  cares  of  to-morrow,  that  weigh  a  man  down. 
For  the  day  we  have  the  corresponding  strength  given, 
for  the  morrow  we  are  told  to  trust ;  it  is  not  ours  yet. 

When  I  get  my  money  for  my  work,  I  mean  to  give 
my  husband  a  long  holiday.  I  half  think  of  taking  him 
to  Italy,  — for  of  course  I  can  do  what  I  like  with  my  own, 
whether  husband  or  money,  —  and  so  have  a  hand  in 
making  him  a  still  better  painter.  Incapable  of  imita- 
tion, the  sight  of  any  real  work  is  always  of  great  service 
to  him,  widening  his  sense  of  art,  enlarging  his  idea  of 
what  can  be  done,  rousing  what  part  of  his  being  is  most 
in  sympathy  with  it,  —  a  part  possibly  as  yet  only  half 
awake  ;  in  a  word,  leading  him  another  step  towards  that 
simplicity  which  is  at  the  root  of  all  diversity,  being  so 
simple  that  it  needs  all  diversity  to  set  it  forth. 

How  impossible  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  ever 
write  a  book !  Well  or  ill  done,  it  is  almost  finished,  for 
the  next  month  is  the  twelfth.  I  must  look  back  upon 
what  I  have  written,  to  see  what  loose  ends  I  may  have 
left,  and  whether  any  allusion  has  not  been  followed  up 

27  313 


314  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

with  a  nocdful  explanation ;  for  this  way  of  writing  hy 
portions — the  only  way  in  which  I  could  have  heen  per- 
suaded to  attempt  the  work,  however  —  is  unfavorable  to 
artistic  unity;  an  unnecessary  remark,  seeing  that  to 
such  unity  my  work  makes  no  pretensions.  It  is  but  a 
collection  of  portions  detached  from  an  uneventful,  ordi- 
nary, and  perhaps  in  part  therefore  very  blessed  life. 
Hence,  perhaps,  it  was  specially  fitted  for  this  mode  of 
publication.  At  all  events,  I  can  cast  upon  it  none  of  the 
blame  of  what  failure  I  may  have  to  confess. 

A  biography  cannot  be  constructed  with  the  art  of  a 
novel,  for  this  reason :  that  a  novel  is  constructed  on  the 
artist's  scale,  with  swift-returning  ^urves ;  a  biography 
on  the  divine  scale,  whose  circles  are  so  large  that  they 
shoot  beyond  this  world,  sometimes  even  before  we  are 
able  to  detect  in  them  the  curve  by  which  they  will 
at  length  round  themselves  back  towards  completion. 
Hence,  every  life  must  look  more  or  less  fragmentary, 
and  more  or  less  out  of  drawing  perhaps ;  not  to  m.en- 
tion  the  questionable  effects  in  color  and  tone  where  the 
model  himself  will  insist  on  taking  palette  and  brushes, 
and  laying  childish,  if  not  passionate,  conceit3d,  ambi- 
tious, or  even  spiteful  hands  to  the  work. 

I  do  not  find  that  1  have  greatly  blundered,  or  omitted 
much  that  I  ought  to  have  mentioned.  One  odd  thing 
is,  that,  in  the  ojDening  conversation  in  which  they  iirge 
me  to  the  attempt,  I  have  not  mentioned  Marion.  I  do 
not  mean  that  she  was  present,  but  that  surely  some  one 
must  have  suggested  her  and  her  history  as  affording 
endless  material  for  my  record.  A  thing  apparently  but 
not  really  strange  is,  that  I  have  never  said  a  word 
about  the  Mrs.  Cromwell  mentioned  in  the  same  conver- 
sation. The  fact  is,  that  I  have  but  just  arrived  at  the 
part  of  my  story  where  she  first  comes  in.  She  died 
about  three  months  ago ;  and  I  can  therefore  with  the 
more  freedom  narrate  in  the  next  chapter  what  I  have 
known  of  her. 

I  find  also  that  I  have,  in  the  fourth  chapter,  by  some 
odd  cerebro-mechanical  freak,  substituted  the  name  of  my 
Aunt  Martha  for  that  of  my  Aunt  Millicent,  another  sis- 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  8] 5 

ter  of  my  fatlier,  whom  he  has  not,  I  believe,  had  occa- 
sion to  mention  in  either  of  his  preceding  books.  My 
Aunt  Martha  is  Mrs.  Weir,  and  has  no  children ;  my 
Aunt  Millicent  is  Mrs.  Parsons,  married  to  a  hard-work- 
ing attorney,  and  has  twelve  children,  now  mostly  grown 
up. 

I  find  also,  in  the  thirteenth  chapter,  an  unexplained 
allusion.  There  my  husband  says,  "  Just  ask  my 
brother  his  experience  in  regard  of  the  word  to  which 
you  object."  The  word  was  stomach,  at  the  use  of  which 
I  had  in  my  ill-temper  taken  umbrage:  however  disa- 
greeable a  word  in  itself,  surely  a  husband  might,  if 
need  be,  use  it  without  oifence.  It  will  be  proof  enough 
that  my  objection  arose  from  pure  ill-temper  when  I 
state  that  I  have  since  asked  Roger  to  what  Percivale 
referred.  His  reply  was,  that,  having  been  requested  by 
a  certain  person  who  had  a  school  for  young  ladies  — 
probably  she  called  it  a  college  —  to  give  her  pupils  a 
few  lectures  on  physiology,  he  could  not  go  far  in  the 
course  without  finding  it  necessary  to  make  a  not  un- 
frequent  use  of  the  word,  explaining  the  functions  of  the 
organ  to  which  the  name  belonged,  as  resembling  those 
of  a  mill.  After  the  lecture  was  over,  the  school-mistress 
took  him  aside,  and  said  she  really  could  not  allow  her 
young  ladies  to  be  made  familiar  with  such  words. 
Roger  averred  that  the  word  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
the  subject  upon  which  slie  had  desired  his  lectures  ; 
and  that  he  did  not  know  how  any  instruction  in  physi- 
ology could  be  given  without  the  free  use  of  it.  "  No 
doubt,"  she  returned,  "you  must  recognize  the  existence 
of  the  organ  in  question;  but,  as  the  name  of  it  is  off'en- 
sive  to  ears  polite,  could  you  not  substitute  another? 
You  have  just  said  that  its  operations  resemble  those  of 
a  mill :  could  you  not,  as  often  as  you  require  to  speak 
of  it,  refer  to  it  in  the  future  as  the  inill  ?  "  Roger,  with, 
great  difficulty  repressing  his  laughter,  consented ;  but 
in  his  next  lecture  made  far  more  frequent  reference  to 
the  mill  than  was  necessary,  using  the  word  every  time 
. —  I  know  exactly  how  —  with  a  certain  absurd  solem- 
nity that  must  have  been  irresistible.     The  girls  went 


316  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

into  fits  of  laughter  at  the  first  utterance  of  it,  and 
seemed,  he  said,  during  the  whole  lecture,  intent  only  on 
the  new  term,  at  every  recurrence  of  which  their  laugh- 
ter burst  out  afresh.  Doubtless  their  school-mistress 
had  herself  prepared  them  to  fall  into  Roger's  trap. 
The  same  night  he  received  a  note  from  her,  enclosing 
his  fee  for  the  lectures  given,  and  informing  him  that  the 
rest  of  the  course  would  not  be  required.  Roger  sent 
back  the  money,  saying  that  to  accept  part  payment 
would  be  to  renounce  his  claim  for  the  whole ;  and  that, 
besides,  he  had  already  received  an  amount  of  amuse- 
ment quite  sufficient  to  reward  him  for  his  labor.  I  told 
him  I  thought  he  had  been  rather  cruel;  but  he  said 
such  a  woman  wanted  a  lesson.  He  said  also,  that  to  see 
the  sort  of  women  who  sometimes  had  the  responsibility 
of  training  girls  must  make  the  angels  weep ;  none  but 
a  heartless  mortal  like  himself  could  laugh  where  conven- 
tionality and  insincerity  were  taught  in  every  hint  as  to 
posture  and  speech.  It  was  bad  enough,  he  said,  to 
shape  yourself  into  your  own  ideal;  but  to  have  to  fash- 
ion yourself  after  the  ideal  of  one  whose  sole  object  in 
teaching  was  to  make  money,  was  something  wretched 
indeed. 

I  find,  besides,  that  several  intentions  I  had  when  I 
started  have  fallen  out  of  the  scheme.  Somehow,  the 
subjects  would  not  well  come  in,  or  I  felt  that  I  was  in 
danger  of  injuring  the  persons  in  the  attempt  to  set 
forth  their  opinions. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

MRS.  CROMWELL  COMES. 

The  moment  the  legacy  was  paid,  our  liabilities  being 
already  nearly  discharged,  my  husband  took  us  all  to 
Hastings.  I  had  never  before  been  to  any  other  sea- 
coast  town  where  the  land  was  worthy  of  the  sea,  except 
Kilkhaven.  Assuredly,  there  is  no  place  within  easy 
reach  of  London  to  be  once  mentioned  with  Hastings. 
Of  course  we  kept  clear  of  the  more  fashionable  and  com- 
monplace St.  Leonard's  End,  where  yet  the  sea  is  th'e 
same,  —  a  sea  such  that,  not  even  off  Cornwall,  have  I 
seen  so  many  varieties  of  ocean-aspect.  The  immediate 
shore,  with  its  earthy  cliffs,  is  vastly  inferior  to  the  mag- 
nificent rock  about  Tintagel ;  but  there  is  no  outlook  on 
the  sea  that  I  know  more  satisfying  than  that  from  the 
h-^ights  of  Hastings,  especially  the  East  Hill ;  from 
the  west  side  of  which  also  you  may,  when  weary  of  the 
ocean,  look  straight  down  on  the  ancient  port,  with  its 
old  houses,  and  fine,  multiform  red  roofs,  through  the 
gauze  of  blue  smoke  which  at  eve  of  a  summer  day  fills 
the  narrow  valley,  softening  the  rough  goings-on  of  life 
into  harmony  with  the  gentleness  of  sea  and  shore,  field 
and  sky.  No  doubt  the  suburbs  are  as  unsightly  as 
mere  boxes  of  brick  and  lime  can  be,  with  an  ugliness 
mean  because  px'etentious,  an  altogether  modern  ugli- 
ness ;  but  even  this  cannot  touch  the  essential  beauty  of 
the  place. 

On  the  brow  of  this  East  Hill,  just  where  it  begins  to 
sink  towards  Ecclesbourne  Glen,  stands  a  small,  old, 
rickety  house  in  the  midst  of  the  sweet  gi-ass  of  tlie 
dowais.  This  house  my  husband  was  fortunate  in  find- 
ing to  let,  and  took  for  three  months.     I  am  not,  however, 

27*  317 


318  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

going  to  give  any  history  of  how  we  spent  them ;  my 
sole  reason  for  mentioning  Hastings  at  all  being  that 
there  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Cromwell.  It 
was  on  this  wise. 

One  bright  day,  about  noon,  —  almost  all  the  daj^s  of 
those  months  were  gorgeous  with  sunlight,  —  a  rather 
fashionable  maid  ran  up  our  little  garden,  begging  for  some 
water  for  her  mistress.  Sending  her  on  with  the  water, 
I  followed  myself  with  a  glass  of  sherry. 

The  door  in  our  garden-hedge  oj)ened  immediately  on 
a  green  hollow  in  the  hill,  sloping  towards  the  glen.  As 
I  stepped  from  the  little  gate  on  to  the  grass,  I  saw,  to 
my  surprise,  that  a  white  fog  was  blowing  in  from  tlie  sea. 
The  heights  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  glen,  partially 
obscured  thereby,  looked  more  majestic  than  was  their 
wont,  and  were  mottled  with  patches  of  duller  and 
brighter  color  as  the  drifts  of  the  fog  were  heaped  or 
parted  here  and  there.  Far  down,  at  tlie  foot  of  the 
cliff's,  the  waves  of  the  rising  tide,  driven  shore-wards 
with  the  added  force  of  a  south-west  breeze,  caught  and 
threw  back  wliat  sunlight  reached  them,  and  thinned 
with  their  shine  the  fog  between.  It  was  all  so  strange 
and  fine,  and  had  come  on  so  suddenly,  —  for  when  I  had 
looked  out  a  few  minutes  before,  sea  and  sky  were  purely 
resplendent,  —  that  I  stood  a  moment  or  two  and  gazed, 
almost  forgetting  why  I  was  there. 

When  I  bethought  myself  and  looked  about  me,  I 
saw,  in  the  sheltered  hollow  before  me,  a  lady  seated  in 
a  curiously-shaped  chair;  so  constructed,  in  fact,  as  to  form 
upon  occasion  a  kind  of  litter.  It  was  plain  she  was  an 
invalid,  from  her  paleness,  and  the  tension  of  tlie  skin 
on  her  face,  revealing  the  outline  of  the  bones  beneath. 
Her  features  were  finely  formed,  but  rather  small,  and  her 
forehead  low ;  a  Greek-like  face,  with  large,  pale-blue 
eyes,  that  reminded  me  of  little  Amy  Morley's.  She 
smiled  very  sweetly  when  she  saw  me,  and  shook  her 
head  at  the  wine. 

"I  only  wanted  a  little  water,"  she  said.  "This  fog 
seems  to  stifle  me." 

"  It  has  come   on  very  suddenly,"  I  said.     "Perhaps 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  319 

it  is  tlie  cold  of  it  that  aflfects  your  breathiug.  You 
don't  seem  very  strong,  and  any  sudden  change  of  tem- 
perature "  — 

"  I  am  not  one  of  the  most  vigorous  of  mortals,''  she 
answered,  with  a  sad  smile;  "but  the  day  seemed  of 
such  indubitable  character,  that,  after  my  husband  had 
brought  me  here  in  the  carriage,  he  sent  it  home,  and  left 
me  with  my  maid,  while  he  went  for  a  long  walk  across 
the  downs.  When  he  sees  the  change  in  the  weather, 
though,  he  will  turn  directly." 

"  It  won't  do  to  wait  him  here,"  I  said.  "  We  must 
get  you  in  at  once.  Would  it  be  wrong  to  press  you  to 
take  a  little  of  this  wine,  just  to  counteract  a  chill  ?  " 

"  I  daren't  touch  any  thing  but  water,"  she  replied. 
"  It  would  make  me  feverish  at  once." 

"  Run  and  tell  the  cook,"  I  said  to  the  maid,  "  that  I 
want  her  here.  You  and  she  could  carry  your  mistress 
in,  could  you  not  ?     I  will  help  you." 

"  There's  no  occasion  for  that,  ma'am  :  she's  as  light 
as  a  feather,"  was  the  whispered  answer. 

"  I  am  quite  ashamed  of  giving  you  so  much  trouble," 
said  the  lady,  either  hearing  or  guessing  at  our  words. 
"  My  husband  will  be  very  grateful  to  you." 

"  It  is  only  an  act  of  common  humanity,"  I  said. 

But,  as  I  spoke,  I  fancied  her  fair  brow  clouded  a  lit- 
tle, as  if  she  was  not  accustomed  to  common  liumanity, 
and  the  word  sounded  harsh  in  her  ear.  The  cloud,  how- 
ever, passed  so  quickly  tliat  I  doubted,  until  I  knew  her 
better,  whether  it  had  really  been  there. 

The  two  maids  were  now  ready ;  and,  Jemima  instructed 
by  the  other,  they  lifted  her  with  the  utmost  ease,  and 
bore  her  gently  towards  the  house.  The  garden-gate 
was  just  wide  enough  to  let  the  chair  through,  and  in  a 
minute  more  she  was  upon  the  sofa.  Then  a  fit  of 
coughing  came  on  which  shook  her  dreadfully.  When  it 
had  passed  she  lay  quiet,  with  closed  eyes,  and  a  smile 
hovering  about  her  sweet,  thin-lipped  mouth.  By  and 
by  she  opened  them,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  pitiful 
expression. 

"  I  fear  you  are  far  from  well,"  I  said. 


/.  '-^  Tf  T  r 


320  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

."  I'm  dying,"  she  returned  quietly. 

"  I  hope  not,"  was  all  I  could  answer. 

"  Why  should  you  hope  not  ?  "  she  returned.  "  I  am 
in  no  strait  betwixt  two.  I  desire  to  depart.  For  me  to 
die  Avill  be  all  gain." 

"  But  your  friends  ? "  I  ventured  to  suggest,  feeling 
my  way,  and  not  quite  relishing  either  the  form  or  tone 
of  her  utterance. 

"  I  have  none  but  my  husband." 

"  Then  j'our  husband  ?  "  I  persisted. 

"  Ah  ! "  she  said  mournfully,  "  he  will  miss  me,  no 
doubt,  for  a  while.  But  it  must  be  a  weight  off  him,  for 
I  have  been  a  suiferer  so  long  !  " 

At  this  moment  I  heard  a  heavy,  hasty  step  in  the 
passage ;  the  next,  the  room  door  opened,  and  in  came, 
in  hot  haste,  wiping  his  red  face,  a  burly  man,  clumsy 
and  active,  with  an  umbrella  in  his  hand,  followed  by  a 
great,  lumbering  Newfoundland  dog. 

"Down,  Polyphemus!"  he  said  to  the  dog,  which 
crept  under  a  chair;  while  he,  taking  no  notice  of  my 
presence,  hurried  up  to  his  wife. 

"  My  love  !  my  little  dove  !  "  he  said  eagerly  :  "  did 
you  tliink  I  had  forsaken  you  to  the  cruel  elemenis  ?  " 

"  No,  Alcibiades,"  she  answered,  with  a  sweet  little 
drawl ;  "  but  you  do  not  observe  that  I  am  not  the  only 
lady  in  the  room."  Then,  turning  to  me,  "  This  is  my 
husband,  Mr.  Cromwell,"  she  said.  "  I  cannot  tell  him 
your  name." 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Percivale,"  I  returned,  almost  mechani- 
cally^ for  the  gentleman's  two  names  had  run  together 
and  were  sounding  in  my  head  :  Alcibiades  CrowMiell ! 
How  could  such  a  conjunction  have  taken  place  without 
the  intervention  of  Charles  Dickens  ? 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Cromwell,  bow- 
ing. "  Permit  my  anxiety  about  my  poor  wife  to  cover 
my  rudeness.  I  had  climbed  the  other  side  of  the  glen 
before  I  saw  the  fog  ;  and  it  is  no  such  easj^  matter  to  get 
up  and  down  these  hills  of  yours.  I  am  greatly  obliged 
to  3'ou  for  your  hospitality.     You  have  doubtless  saved 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  321 

her  life ;  for  she  is  a  frail  flower,  shrinking  from  the 
least  breath  of  cold.'' 

The  lady  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  the  gentleman 
took  her  hand,  and  felt  her  pulse.  He  seemed  about 
twice  her  age,  —  she  not  thirty;  he  well  past  fifty,  the 
top  of  his  head  bald,  and  his  gray  hair  sticking  out 
fiercely  over  his  good-natured  red  cheeks.  He  laid  her 
hand  gently  down,  put  his  hat  on  the  table  and  his  um- 
brella in  a  corner,  wiped  his  face  agaii^,  drew  a  chair  near 
the  sofa,  and  took  his  place  by  her  side.  I  thought  it 
better  to  leave  them. 

When  I  re-entered  after  a  while,  I  saw  from  the  win- 
dows, which  looked  sea-ward,  that  the  wind  had  risen, 
and  was  driving  thin  drifts  no  longer,  but  great,  thick, 
white  masses  of  sea-fog  landwards.  It  was  the  storm- 
wind  of  that  coast,  the  south-west,  which  dashes  the 
l^ebbles  over  the  Parade,  and  the  heavy  spray  against  the 
houses.  Mr.  Alcibiades  Cromwell  was  sitting  as  I  had 
left  him,  silent,  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  whose  blue-veined 
eyelids  had  apparently  never  been  lifted  from  her  large 
eyes. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  I  could  offer  Mrs.  Cromwell  ?  "  I 
said,     "  Could  she  not  eat  something  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  little  she  can  take,"  he  answered ;  "  but 
you  are  very  kind.  If  you  could  let  her  have  a  little  beef- 
tea  ?  She  generally  has  a  spoonful  or  two  about  this 
time  of  the  day." 

"I  am  sorry  we  have  none,"  I  said;  "and  it  would 
be  far  too  long  for  her  to  wait.  I  have  a  nice  chicken, 
though,  ready  for  cooking :  if  she  could  take  a  little 
chicken-broth,  that  would  be  ready  in  a  very  little  while." 

"Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  ma'am,"  he  said 
heartily  ;  "nothing  c6uld  be  better.  She  might  even  be 
induced  to  eat  a  mouthful  of  the  chicken.  But  I  am 
afraid  jonv  extreme  kindness  prevents  me  from  being  so 
thoroughly  ashamed  as  I  ought  to  be  at  putting  you  to 
so  much  trouble  for  perfect  strangers." 

"  It  is  but  a  pleasure  to  be  of  service  to  any  one  in 
want  of  it,"  I  said. 

Mrs.  CromweU  opened  her  eyes  and  smUed  gratefully. 


322  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  left  the  room  to  give  orders  about  the  chicken,  indeed, 
to  superintend  the  preparation  of  it  myself;  for  Jemima 
could  not  be  altogether  trusted  in  such  a  delicate  affair 
as  cooking  for  an  invalid. 

When  I  returned,  having  set  the  simple  operation 
going,  Mr.  Cromwell  had  a  little  hymn-book  of  mine  he 
had  found  on  the  table  open  in  his  hand,  and  his  wife 
was  saying  to  him,  — 

"  That  is  lovely  !  Thank  you,  husband.  How  can  it 
be  I  never  saw  it  before  ?     I  am  quite  astonished." 

"She  little  knows  what  multitudes  of  hymns  there 
are  !  "  I  thought  with  mj^self,  —  my  father  having  made 
a  collection,  whence  I  had  some  idea  of  the  extent  of 
that  department  of  religious  literature. 

"  This  is  a  hymn-book  we  are  not  acquainted  with," 
said  Mr.  Cromwell,  addressing  me. 

"  It  is  not  much  known,"  I  answered.  "  It  was  com- 
piled by  a  friend  of  my  father's  for  his  own  schools." 

"  And  this,"  he  went  on,  "  is  a  very  beautiful  hymn. 
You  may  trust  my  wife's  judgment,  Mrs.  Percivale. 
She  lives  upon  hymns." 

He  read  the  first  line  to  show  which  he  meant.  I  had 
long  thought,  and  still  think,  it  the  most  beautiful  hymn 
I  know.  It  was  taken  from  the  German,  only  much  im- 
proved in  the  taking,  and  given  to  my  father  to  do  what 
he  pleased  with ;  and  my  father  had  given  it  to  another 
friend  for  his  collection.  Before  that,  however,  while 
still  in  manuscript,  it  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  cer- 
tain clergyman,  by  whom  it  had  been  published  without 
leave  asked,  or  apology  made  :  a  rudeness  of  which  neither 
my  father  nor  the  author  would  have  complained,  for  it 
was  a  pleasure  to  think  it  might  thus  reach  many  to 
wlioin  it  would  be  helpful;  but  they  both  felt  aggrieved 
and  indignant  that  he  had  taken  the  dishonest  liberty  of 
altering  certain  lines  of  it  to  suit  his  own  opinions.  As 
I  am  anxious  to  give  it  all  the  publicity  I  can,  from  pure 
delight  in  it,  and  love  to  all  who  are  capable  of  the  same 
delight,  I  shall  here  communicate  it,  in  the  full  couli- 
dence  of  thus  establishing  a  claim  on  the  gratitude  of 
my  readers. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  323 


0  Lord,  how  happy  is  the  time 
Wheu  in  thy  love  I  rest ! 

When  from  my  weariness  I  climb 

Even  to  thy  tender  breast ! 
The  niijht  of  sorrow  cndeth  there: 

Thou  art  brigliter  than  the  sun ; 
And  in  thy  pardon  and  thy  care 

The  heaven  of  heaven  is  won. 

Let  the  world  call  herself  my  foe, 
Or  let  the  world  allure. 

1  care  not  for  the  world :  I  go 

To  this  dear  Friend  and  sure. 
And  when  life's  fiercest  storms  are  sent 

Upon  life's  wildest  sea. 
My  little  bark  is  confident. 

Because  it  holds  by  thee. 

When  the  law  threatens  endless  death 

Upon  the  awful  hill, 
Straightway  fi-oin  her  consuming  breath 

My  soul  goes  higlier  still,  — 
Gocth  to  Jesus,  wounded,  slain, 

And  maketh  him  h.r  home. 
Whence  she  will  not  go  out  again. 

And  where  death  cannot  come. 

I  do  not  fear  the  wilderness 

Where  thou  hast  been  before; 
Nay,  rather  will  I  daily  press 

After  thee,  near  thee,  more. 
Thou  art  my  food ;  on  thee  I  lean ; 

Thou  makest  my  heart  sing  ; 
And  to  thy  heavenly  pastures  green 

All  thy  dear  flock  dost  bring. 

And  if  the  gate  that  opens  there 

Be  dark  to  other  men. 
It  is  not  dark  to  those  who  share 

The  heart  of  Jesus  then. 
That  is  not  losing  much  of  life 

Which  is  not  losing  thee. 
Who  art  as  present  in  the  strife 

As  in  the  victory. 

Therefore  how  happy  is  the  time 

When  in  thy  love  I  rest ! 
When  from  my  weariness  I  climb 

Even  to  thy  tender  breast  I 


324  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

The  night  of  sorrow  cndeth  there : 

Thou  arc  brighter  than  the  sun ; 
And  in  thy  pardon  and  tliy  care 

The  heaven  of  heaven  is  won. 

In  telling  them  a  few  of  the  facts  connected  with  the 
hymn,  I  presume  I  had  manifested  my  admiration  of  it 
with  some  degree  of  fervor. 

"Ah!"  said  Mrs.  Cromwell,  opening  her  ej'es  very 
wide,  and  letting  the  rising  tears  fill  them:  "Ah,  Mrs. 
Percivale  !  you  are  —  you  must  be  one  of  us  ! " 

■'  You  must  tell  me  first  who  you  are,"  I  said. 

She  held  out  her  hand;  I  gave  her  mine:  she  drew 
me  towards  her,  and  whispered  almost  in  my  ear  — 
though  why  or  whence  the  affectation  of  secrecy  I  can 
only  imagine  —  the  name  of  a  certain  small  and  exclu- 
sive sect.  I  will  not  indicate  it,  lest  I  should  be  supposed 
to  attribute  to  it  either  the  peculiar  faults  or  virtues  of 
my  new  acquaintance. 

"No,"  I  answered,  speaking  with  the  calmness  of  self- 
compulsion,  for  I  confess  I  felt  repelled :  "  I  am  not  one 
of  you,  except  in  as  far  as  we  all  belong  to  the  church 
of  Christ." 

I  have  thought  since  how  much  better  it  would  have  been 
to  say,  "  Yes  :  for  we  all  belong  to  the  church  of  Christ." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  disappointment,  closed  her 
eyes  for  a  moment,  opened  them  again  with  a  smile,  and 
said,  with  a  pleading  tone,  — 

"But  you  do  believe  in  personal  religion?" 

"  I  don't  see,"  I  returned,  "  how  religion  can  be  any 
thing  but  personal." 

Again  she  closed  her  eyes,  in  a  way  that  made  me 
think  how  convenient  bad  health  must  be,  conferring 
not  only  the  privilege  of  passing  into  retirement  at  any 
desirable  moment,  but  of  doing  so  in  such  a  ready  and 
easy  manner  as  the  mere  dropping  of  the  eyelids. 

I  rose  to  leave  the  room  once  more.  Mr.  Cromwell,  who 
had  made  way  for  me  to  sit  beside  his  wife,  stood  look- 
ing out  of  the  wnudow,  against  which  came  sweeping  the 
great  volumes  of  mist.  I  glanced  out  also.  Not  only 
was  the  sea  invisible,  but  even  the  brow  of  the  cliffs. 


THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  325 

Wlien  he  turned  towards  me,  as  I  passed  him,  I  saw  that 
his  face  had  lost  much  of  its  rubicund  hue,  and  looked 
troubled  and  anxious. 

"There  is  nothing  for  it,"  I  said  to  myself,  "but  keep 
them  all  night,"  and  so  gave  directions  to  have  a  bedroom 
prepared  for  them.  I  did  not  much  like  it,  I  confess ; 
for  I  was  not  much  interested  in  either  of  them,  while 
of  the  sect  to  which  she  belonged  I  knew  enough  al- 
ready to  be  aware  that  it  was  of  the  narrowest  and  most 
sectarian  in  Christendom.  It  was  a  pity  she  had  sought 
to  claim  nie  by  a  would-be  closer  bond  than  that  of  tlie 
body  of  Christ.  Still  I  knew  I  should  be  myself  a  sec- 
tary if  I  therefore  excluded  her  from  my  best  sympa- 
thies. At  the  same  time  I  did  feel  some  Curiosity  con- 
cerning the  oddly-yoked  couple,  and  wondered  whether 
the  lady  was  really  so  ill  as  she  would  appear.  I  doubted 
whether  she  might  not  be  using  her  illness  both  as  an 
excuse  for  self-indulgence,  and  as  a  means  of  keeping 
her  husband's  interest  in  her  on  the  stretch.  I  did  not 
like  the  wearing  of  her  religion  on  her  sleeve,  nor  the 
mellifluous  drawl  in  which  she  spoke. 

When  the  chicken-broth  was  ready,  she  partook  daint- 
ily ;  but  before  she  ended  had  made  a  very  good  meal, 
including  a  wing  and  a  bit  of  the  breast;  after  which 
she  fell  asleep. 

"  There  seems  little  chance  of  the  weather  clearing," 
said  Mr.  Cromwell  in  a  whisper,  as  I  approached  the 
window  where  he  once  more  stood. 

"  You  must  make  up  3'our  mind  to  remain  here  for  the 
night,"  I  said. 

"  My  dear  madam,  I  couldn't  think  of  it,"  he  returned, 
—  I  thought  from  unwillingness  to  incommode  a  strange 
household.  "  An  invalid  like  her,  sweet  lamb ! "  he 
went  on,  "requires  So  many  little  comforts  and  peculiar 
contrivances  to  entice  the  repose  she  so  greatly  needs, 
that  —  that  —  in  short,  I  must  get  her  home." 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?"  I  asked,  not  sorry  to  find  his 
intention  of  going  so  fixed. 

"'  We  have  a  house  in  Warrior  Square,"  he  answered. 
"  We  live  in  London,  but  have  been  here  all  the  past 
.  28 


326  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

winter.  I  doubt  if  she  improves,  though.  I  doubt  —  I 
doubt." 

He  said  the  last  words  in  a  yet  lower  and  more  mourn- 
ful whisper;  then,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  turned  and 
gazed  again  through  the  window. 

A  peculiar  little  cough  from  the  sofa  made  us  both 
look  round.  Mrs.  Cromwell  was  awake,  and  searching 
for  her  handkerchief.  Her  husband  understood  her 
movements,  and  hurried  to  her  assistance.  When  she 
took  the  han<lkerchief  from  her  mouth,  there  was  a  red 
iijiot  upon  it.  Mr.  Cromwell's  face  turned  the  color  of 
lead;  but  his  wife  looked  up  at  him,  and  smiled;  a 
sweet,  consciously  pathetic  smile. 

"  He  has  sent  for  me,"  she  said.  "  The  messenger  has 
come." 

Her  husband  made  no  answer.  His  ej-es  seemed 
starting  fi-om  his  head. 

''  Who  is  your  medical  man  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

He  told  me,  and  I  sent  off  my  housemaid  to  fetch  him. 
It  was  a  long  hour  before  he  arrived;  during  which,  as 
often  as  I  peeped  in,  I  saw  him  sitting  silent,  and  hold- 
ing her  hand,  until  the  last  time,  when  I  found  him 
reading  a  hymn  to  her.  She  was  apparently  once  more 
asleep.  Nothing  could  be  more  fjivorable  to  her  recov- 
ery than  such  quietness  of  both  body  and  mind. 

When  the  doctor  came,  and  had  listened  to  Mr.  Crom- 
AvelFs  statement,  he  proceeded  to  examine  her  chest  with 
much  care.  That  over,  he  averred  in  her  hearing  that 
he  found  nothing  serious ;  but  told  her  husband  apart 
that  there  was  considerable  mischief,  and  assured  me  af- 
terwards that  her  lungs  were  all  but  gone,  and  that  she 
could  not  live  beyond  a  month  or  two.  She  had  better 
be  removed  to  her  own  house,  he  said,  as  speedily  as 
possible. 

"But  it  would  be  crueltj^  to  send  her  out  a  day  like 
this,"  I  returned. 

"Yes,  yes:  I  did  not  mean  that,"  he  said.  "But 
to-morrow,  perhaps.  You'll  see  what  the  weather  is  like. 
Is  Mrs.  Cromwell  an  old  friend?  " 

"  I  never  saw  her  until  to-day,"  I  replied. 


TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  327 

"  Ah  ! "  he  remarked,  and  said  no  more. 

We  got  her  to  bed  as  soon  as  possible.  I  may  just 
mention  that  I  never  saw  any  thing  to  equal  the  point- 
devise  of  her  underclothing.  There  was  not  a  stitch  of 
cotton  about  her,  using  the  word  stitch  in  its  metaphor- 
ical sense.  But,  indeed,  I  doubt  whether  her  garments 
were  not  all  made  with  linen  thread.  Even  her  horse- 
hair petticoat  was  quilted  with  rose-colored  silk  inside. 

"  Surely  she  has  no  children  !"  I  said  to  myself;  and 
was  right,  as  my  mother-readers  will  not  be  surprised  to 
learn. 

It  was  a  week  before  she  got  up  again,  and  a  month 
before  she  was  carried  down  the  hill ;  during  which  time 
her  husband  sat  up  with  her,  or  slept  on  a  sofa  in  the 
room  beside  her,  every  night.  During  the  day  I  took  a 
share  in  the  nursing,  which  was  by  no  means  oppressive, 
for  she  did  not  suffer  much,  and  required  little.  Her 
chief  demand  was  for  hymns,  the  only  annoyance  con- 
nected with  which  worth  mentioning  was,  that  she  often 
wished  me  to  admire  with  her  such  as  I  could  only  lialf 
like,  and  occasionally  such  as  were  thoroughly  distaste- 
ful to  me.  Her  husband  had  brought  her  own  collection 
from  Warrior  Square,  volumes  of  hj-mus  in  manu- 
script, copied  by  her  own  hand,  many  of  them  strange 
to  me,  none  of  those  I  read  altogether  devoid  of  lit- 
erary merit,  and  some  of  them  lovely  both  in  feeling  and 
form.  But  all,  even  the  best,  which  to  me  were  un- 
objectionable, belonged  to  one  class,  —  a  class  breathing 
a  certain  tone  difficult  to  describe ;  one,  however,  which 
I  find  characteristic  of  all  the  Roman  Catholic  hymns  I 
have  read.  I  will  not  indicate  any  of  her  selection  ; 
neither,  lest  I  should  be  supposed  to  object  to  this  or 
that  one  answering  to  the  general  description,  and 
yet  worthy  of  all  respect,  or  even  sympathy,  will  I 
go  further  with  a  specification  of  their  sort  than  to  say 
that  what  pleased  me  in  them  was  their  full  utterance 
j)f  personal  devotion  to  the  Saviour,  and  that  what  dis- 
pleased me  was  a  sort  of  sentimental  regard  of  self  in 
the  matter,  —  an  implied  special,  and  thus  partially  ex- 
clusive predilection  or  preference  of  the  Saviour  for  the 


328  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

individual  supposed  to  be  making  use  of  them ;  a  certain 
fundanieutal  want  of  humility  therefore,  although  the 
forms  of  speech  in  which  they  were  cast  might  be  labo- 
riously humble.  They  also  not  unfrequently  manifested 
a  great  leaning  to  the  forms  of  earthly  show  as  represen- 
tative of  the  glories  of  that  kingdom  which  the  Lord 
says  is  ivithin  us. 

Likewise  the  manner  in  which  Mrs.  Cromwell  talked 
reminded  me  much  of  the  way  in  which  a  nun  would 
represent  her  individual  relation  to  Christ.  I  can  best 
show  what  I  mean  by  giving  a  conversation  I  had  with 
her  one  day  when  she  was  recovering,  which  she  did 
with  wonderful  rapidity  up  to  a  certain  point.  I  confess 
I  shrink  a  little  from  reproducing  it,  because  of  the  sa- 
cred name  which,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  was  far  too  often 
upon  her  lips,  and  too  easily  uttered.  But  then,  she  was 
made  so  different  from  me  ! 

The  fine  weather  had  returned  in  all  its  summer  glory, 
and  she  was  lying  on  a  couch  in  her  own  room  near  the 
window,  whence  she  could  gaze  on  the  expanse  of  sea 
below,  this  morning  streaked  with  the  most  delicate 
gradations  of  distance,  sweep  beyond  sweep,  line  and  band 
and  ribbon  of  softly,  often  but  slightly  varied  hue,  leading 
the  eyes  on  and  on  into  the  infinite.  There  may  have 
been  some  atmospheric  illusion  ending  off  the  show,  for 
the  last  reaches  mingled  so  with  the  air  that  you  saw  no 
horizon  line,  only  a  great  breadth  of  border ;  no  sj)ot 
which  could  you  appropriate  with  certainty  either  to 
sea  or  sky ;  while  here  and  there  was  a  vessel,  to  all 
appearance,  pursuing  its  path  in  the  sky,  and  not  upon 
the  sea.  It  was,  as  some  of  my  readers  will  not  require 
to  be  told,  a  still,  gray  forenoon,  with  a  film  of  cloud 
over  all  the  heavens,  and  many  horizontal  strata  of  deeper 
but  varying  density  near  the  horizon. 

Mrs.  Cromw^ell  had  lain  for  some  time  with  her  large 
eyes  fixed  on  the  farthest  confusion  of  sea  and  sky. 

"  I  have  been  sending  out  my  soul,"  she  said  at  length, 
"  to  travel  all  across  those  distances,  step  by  step,  on  to 
the  gates  of  pearl.  Who  knows  but  that  may  be  the 
path  I  must  travel  to  meet  the  Bridegroom  ?  " 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  329 

"  The  way  is  wide,"  I  said :  "  what  if  you  shovild  miss 
him?" 

I  spoke  almost  involuntarily.  The  style  of  her  talk  was 
very  distasteful  to  me  ;  and  I  had  just  been  thinking  of 
what  I  had  once  heard  my  father  say,  that  at  no  time 
were  people  in  more  danger  of  being  theatrical  than 
when  upon  their  death-beds. 

"  No,"  she  returned,  with  a  smile  of  gentle  superiority ; 
"no:  that  cannot  be.  Is  he  not  waiting  for  me? 
Has  he  not  chosen  me,  and  called  me  for  his  own  ?  Is 
not  my  Jesus  mine  ?  I  shall  not  miss  him.  He  waits 
to  give  me  my  new  name,  and  clothe  me  in  the  garments 
of  righteousness." 

As  she  spoke,  she  clasped  her  thin  hands,  and  looked 
upwards  with  a  radiant  expression.  Far  as  it  was  from 
me  to  hint,  even  in  my  own  soul,  that  the  Saviour  was 
not  hers,  tenfold  more  hers  than  she  was  able  to  think,  I 
could  not  at  the  same  time  but  doubt  whether  her  heart 
and  soul  and  mind  were  as  close  to  him  as  her  words 
would  indicate  she  thought  they  were.  She  could  not 
be  wrong  in  trusting  him ;  but  could  she  be  right  in  lier 
notion  of  the  measure  to  which  her  union  with  him  had 
beei.  perfected?  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  a  little 
fear,  soon  to  pass  into  reverence,  might  be  to  her  a  salu- 
tary thing.  The  fear,  I  thought,  would  heighten  and 
deepen  the  love,  and  purify  it  from  that  self  which 
haunted  her  whole  consciousness,  and  of  which  she  had 
not  yet  sickened,  as  one  day  she  certainly  must. 

"My  lamp  is  burning,"  she  said;  "I  feel  it  burn- 
ing. I  love  my  Lord.  It  would  be  false  to  say  other- 
wise." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  have  oil  enough  in  your  vessel  as 
well  as  in  your  lamp  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Ah,  you  are  one  of  the  doubting ! "  she  returned 
kindly.  "  Don't  you  know  that  sweet  hymn  about  feed- 
ing our  lamps  from  the  olive-trees  of  Gethsemane  ?  The 
idea  is  taken  from  the  lamp  the  prophet  Zechariah  saw 
in  his  vision,  into  which  two  olive-branches,  through  two 
golden  pipes,  emptied  the  golden  oil  out  of  themselves. 
If  we  are  thus  one  with  the  olive-tree,  the  oil  cannot  fail 

28* 


330  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

us.  It  is  not  as  if  we  liaJ  to  fill  our  lamps  from  a  cruse  of 
our  own.     This  is  the  cruse  that  cannot  fail." 

"  True,  true,"  I  said ;  "  but  ought  we  not  to  examine 
our  own  selves  whether  we  are  in  the  faith  ?  " 

''Let  those  examine  that  doubt,"  she  replied;  and  I 
could  not  but  yield  in  my  heart  that  she  had  had  the 
best  of  the  argument. 

For  I  knew  that  the  confidence  in  Christ  which  pre- 
vents us  from  thinking  of  ourselves,  and  makes  us  eager  to 
obey  his  word,  leaving  all  the  care  of  our  feelings  to  him,  is 
a  true  and  healthy  faith.  Hence  I  could  not  answer  her, 
although  I  doubted  whether  her  peace  came  from  such 
confidence,  —  doubted  for  several  reasons :  one,  that,  so 
far  from  not  thinking  of  herself,  she  seemed  full  of  herself ; 
another,  that  she  seemed  to  find  no  difficulty  with  herself 
in  any  way ;  and,  surely,  she  was  too  young  for  all 
struggle  to  be  over !  I  perceived  no  reference  to  the  will 
of  God  in  regard  of  any  thing  she  had  to  do,  only  in 
regard  of  what  she  had  to  suffer,  and  especially  in  regard 
of  that  smallest  of  matters,  when  she  was  to  go.  Here 
I  checked  myself,  for  what  could  she  do  in  such  a  state 
of  health  ?  But  then  she  never  spoke  as  if  she  had  any 
anxiety  about  the  welfare  of  other  people.  That,  how- 
ever, might  be  from  her  absolute  contentment  in  the  will 
of  God.  But  why  did  she  always  look  to  the  Saviour 
through  a  mist  of  hymns,  and  never  go  straight  back  to 
the  genuine  old  good  news,  or  to  the  mighty  thoughts 
and  exhortations  with  which  the  first  preachers  of  that 
news  followed  them  up  and  unfolded  the  grandeur  of 
their  goodness  ?  After  all,  was  I  not  judging  her?  On 
the  other  hand,  ought  I  not  to  care  for  her  state  ? 
Should  I  not  be  inhuman,  that  is,  unchristian,  if  I 
did   not? 

In  the  end  I  saw  clearlj'  enough,  that,  except  it 
was  revealed  to  me  what  I  ought  to  say,  I  had  no 
right  to  say  any  thing ;  and  that  to  be  uneasy  about 
her  was  to  distrust  Him  whose  it  was  to  teach  her,  and 
who  would  perfect  that  which  he  had  certainly  begun  in 
her.  For  lier  heart,  however  i)oor  and  faulty  and  flimsy 
its  faitli  might  be,  was  yet  certainly  drawn  towards  the 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  331 

object  of  faith.  I,  therefore,  said  nothing  more  in  the 
direction  of  opening  her  eyes  to  what  I  considered  her 
condition  :  that  view  of  it  might,  after  all,  he  but  a  phan- 
tasm of  my  own  projection.  What  was  plainly  my  duty 
was  to  serve  her  as  one  of  those  the  least  of  whom  the 
Saviour  sets  forth  as  representing  himself.  I  would  do 
it  to  her  as  unto  him. 

My  children  were  out  the  greater  part  of  every  day, 
and  Dora  was  with  me,  so  that  I  had  more  leisure  than 
I  had  had  for  a  long  time.  I  therefore  set  myself  to 
wait  upon  her  as  a  kind  of  lady's  maid  in  things  spiritual. 
Her  own  maid,  understanding  her  ways,  was  sufficient 
for  things  temporal.  I  resolved  to  try  to  help  her  after 
her  own  fashion,  and  not  after  mine  ;  for,  however  strange 
the  nourishment  she  preferred  might  seem,  it  must  at 
least  be  of  the  kind  she  could  best  assimilate.  My  care 
should  be  to  give  her  her  gruel  as  good  as  I  might,  and 
her  beef-tea  strong,  with  chicken-broth  instead  of  barley- 
water  and  delusive  jelly.  But  much  opportunity  of 
ministration  was  not  aft'orded  me  ;  for  her  husband,  whose 
business  in  life  she  seemed  to  regard  as  the  care  of  her, 
—  for  which,  in  truth,  she  was  gently  and  lovingly 
grateful,  —  and  wlio  not  merely  accepted  her  view  of  the 
matter,  but,  I  was  pretty  sure,  had  had  a  large  share  in 
originating  it,  was  even  more  constant  in  his  attentions 
than  she  found  altogether  agreeable,  to  judge  by  the  way 
in  which  she  would  insist  on  his  going  out  for  a  second 
walk,  when  it  was  clear,  that,  besides  his  desire  to  be  with 
her,  he  was  not  inclined  to  walk  any  more. 

I  could  set  myself,  however,  as  I  have  indicated,  to 
find  fitting  pabulum  for  her,  and  that  of  her  chosen  sort. 
This  was  possible  for  me  in  virtue  of  my  father's 
collection  of  hymns,  and  the  aid  he  could  give  me.  I 
therefore  sent  him  a  detailed  description  of  what  seemed 
to  me  her  condition,  and  what  I  thought  I  might  do  for 
her.  It  was  a  week  before  he  gave  me  an  answer ;  but  it 
arrived  a  thorough  one,  in  the  shape  of  a  box  of  books, 
each  bristling  with  paper  marks,  many  of  them  inscribed 
with  some  fact  concerning,  or  criticism  upon,  the  hymn 
indicated.     He   wrote    that  he   quite    agreed  with    my 


332  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

notion  of  tlie  right  mode  of  serving  her ;  for  any  other 
would  be  as  if  a  besieging  party  were  to  batter  a  postern 
by  means  of  boats  instead  of  walking  over  a  lowered 
drawbridge,  and  under  a  raised  portcullis. 

Having  taken  a  survey  of  the  hymns  my  father  thus 
pointed  out  to  me,  and  arranged  them  according  to  their 
degrees  of  approximation  to  the  weakest  of  those  in  Mrs. 
Cromwell's  collection,  I  judged  that  in  all  of  them  there 
was  something  she  must  apj^reciate,  although  the  main 
drift  of  several  would  be  entirely  beyond  her  apprehen- 
sion. Even  these,  however,  it  would  be  well  to  try  upon 
her. 

Accordingly,  the  next  time  she  asked  me  to  read  from 
her  collection,  I  made  the  request  that  she  would  listen 
to  some  which  I  believed  she  did  not  know,  but  would,  I 
thought,  like.  She  consented  with  eagerness,  was  as- 
tonished to  find  she  knew  none  of  them,  expressed  much 
approbation  of  some,  and  showed  herself  delighted  with 
others. 

That  she  must  have  had  some  literary  faculty  seems 
evident  from  the  genuine  pleasure  she  took  in  sim- 
ple, quaint,  sometimes  even  odd  hymns  of  her  own 
peculiar  kind.  But  the  very  best  of  another  sort  she 
could  not  appreciate.  For  instance,  the  following,  by 
John  Mason,  in  my  father's  opinion  one  of  the  best  hymn- 
writers,  had  no  attraction  for  her:  — 

"  Thou  wast,  0  God,  and  thou  was  blest 

Before  the  world  begun ; 
Of  thine  eternity  possest 

Before  time's  glass  did  run. 
Thou  needest  none  thy  praise  to  sing, 

As  if  thy  joy  could  fade  : 
Couldst  thou  have  needed  any  thing, 

Thou  couldst  liavc  nothing  made. 

Great  and  good  God,  it  pleaseth  thee 

Thy  Godhead  to  declare  ; 
And  what  thy  goodness  did  decree. 

Thy  greatUL'ss  did  prepare  : 
Thou  spak'st,  and  heaven  and  earth  appeared, 

And  answered  to  thy  call ; 
As  if  their  Maker's  voice  they  heard. 

Which  is  the  creature's  All. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  333 

Thou  spak'st  the  word,  most  mighty  Lord ; 

Thy  word  went  forth  with  speed : 
Thy  will,  0  Lord,  it  was  thy  word  ; 

Thy  word  it  was  thy  deed. 
Thou  brought'st  forth  Adam  from  the  ground. 

And  Eve  out  of  his  side : 
Thy  blessing  made  the  earth  abound 

With  these  t\vo  multiplied. 

Those  three  great  leaves,  heaven,  sea,  and  land. 

Thy  name  in  figures  show  ; 
Brutes  feel  the  bounty  of  thy  hand. 

But  I  my  Maker  know. 
Should  not  I  here  thy  servant  be. 

Whose  creatures  serve  me  here  1 
My  Lord,  whom  should  I  fear  but  thee. 

Who  am  thy  creatures'  fear  ? 

To  whom,  Lord,  should  I  sing  but  thee, 

The  Maker  of  ray  tongue  ? 
Lo !  other  lords  would  seize  on  me. 

But  I  to  thee  belong. 
As  waters  haste  unto  their  sea. 

And  earth  unto  its  earth. 
So  let  my  soul  return  to  thee, 

From  whom  it  had  its  birth. 

But,  ah !  I'm  fallen  in  the  night. 

And  cannot  come  to  thee  : 
Yet  speak  the  word,  '  Let  there  be  light;* 

It  shall  enlighten  me. 
And  let  thy  word,  most  mighty  Lord, 

Thy  fallen  creature  raise  : 
Oh  !  make  me  o'er  again,  and  I 

Shall  sing  my  Maker's  praise." 

This  and  others,  I  say,  she  could  not  relish ;  but  my 
endeavors  were  crowned  with  success  in  so  far  that  she 
accepted  better  specimens  of  the  sort  she  liked  than  any 
she  had ;  and  I  think  they  must  have  had  a  good  in- 
fluence upon  her. 

She  seemed  to  have  no  fear  of  death,  contemplating 
the  change  she  believed  at  hand,  not  with  equanimity 
merely,  but  with  expectation.  She  even  wrote  hymns 
about  it,  —  sweet,  pretty,  and  weak,  always  with  herself 
and  the  love  of  her  Saviour  for  her,  in  the  foreground. 
She  had  not  learned  that  the  love  which  lays  hold  of 


334  TEE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

that  which  is  human  in  the  individual,  that  is,  which  is 
common  to  the  wliole  race,  must  be  an  infinitely  deeper, 
tenderer,  and  more  precious  thing  to  the  individual  than 
any  affection  manifesting  itself  in  the  preference  of  one 
over  another. 

For  the  sake  of  revealing  lier  modes  of  thought,  I 
will  give  one  more  specimen  of  ray  conversations  with 
her,  ere  I  pass  on.  It  took  place  the  evening  be- 
fore lier  departure  for  her  own  liouse.  Her  husband  had 
gone  to  make  some  final  preparations,  of  which  there 
had  been  many.  For  one  who  expected  to  be  unclotlied 
that  she  might  be  clothed  upon,  she  certainly  made  a 
tolerable  to-do  about  the  garment  she  was  so  soon  to  lay 
aside ;  especially  seeing  she  often  spoke  of  it  as  an  ill- 
fitting  garment  —  never  with  peevishness  or  complaint, 
only,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  far  more  interest  than  it 
was  worth.  She  had  even,  as  afterwards  appeared,  given 
her  husband  —  good,  honest,  dog-like  man  —  full  in- 
structions as  to  the  ceremonial  of  its  interment.  Per- 
haps I  should  have  been  considerably  less  bewildered 
with  her  conduct  had  I  suspected  that  she  was  not  lialf 
so  near  death  as  she  chose  to  think,  and  that  she  had  as 
yet  suffered  little. 

That  evening,  the  stars  just  beginning  to  glimmer 
through  the  warm  flush  that  lingered  from  the  sunset, 
we  sat  together  in  the  drawing-room  looking  out  on  the 
sea.  My  patient  appearing,  from  the  light  in  her  eyes, 
about  to  go  off  into  one  of  her  ecstatic  moods,  I  hastened 
to  forestall  it,  if  I  might,  with  whatever  came  uppermost ; 
for  I  felt  my  inability  to  sympathize  with  her  in  these 
more  of  a  pain  than  my  reader  will,  perhaps,  readily 
imagine. 

"  It  seems  like  turning  you  out  to  let  you  go  to-mor- 
row, Mrs.  Cromwell,"  I  said  ;  "but,  you  see,  our  three 
months  are  up  two  days  after,  and  I  cannot  help  it." 

"  You  have  been  very  kind,"  she  said,  half  abstract- 
edly. 

"And  you  are  really  much  better.  Who  would  have 
thought  three  weeks  ago  to  see  you  so  well  to-day  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  you  congratulate   me,  do  you  ?  "  she  rejoined, 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  335 

turning  her  big  eyes  full  upon  me;  '' congratulate  me 
that  I  am  doomed  to  be  still  a  captive  in  the  prison  of 
this  vile  body  ?     Is  it  kind  ?     Is  it  well  ?  " 

"At  least,  you  must  remember,  if  you  are  doomed, 
who  dooms  you." 

"  '  Oh  that  I  had  the  wings  of  a  dove  ! '"  she  cried, 
avoiding  my  remark,  of  which  I  doubt  if  she  saw  the 
drift.  "  Think,  dear  Mrs.  Percivale  :  the  society  of 
saints  and  angels  !  —  all  brightness  and  harmony  and 
peace  !  Is  it  not  worth  forsaking  this  world  to  inherit 
a  kingdom  like  that  ?  Wouldn't  yori  like  to  go  ?  Don't 
you  wisb  to  fly  away  and  be  at  rest  ?  " 

She  spoke  as  if  expostulating  and  reasoning  with  one 
she  would  persuade  to  some  kind  of  holy  emigration. 

"  Not  until  I  am  sent  for,"  I  answered. 

''  I  am  sent  for,"  she  returned. 

"  '  The  vva're  may  be  cold,  and  the  tide  may  be  strong ; 
But,  hark  !  on  the  shore  the  angels'  glad  song  ! ' 

Do  you  know  that  sweet  hymn,  Mrs.  Percivale  ?  Thero 
I  shall  be  able  to  love  him  aright,  to  serve  him  aright ! 

"  '  Here  all  my  labor  is  so  poor ! 
Here  all  my  love  so  faint ! 
But  when  I  reach  the  heavenly  door, 
I  cease  the  weary  plaint.' " 

I  couldn't  help  wishing  she  would  cease  it  a  little 
sooner. 

"  But  suppose,"  I  ventured  to  say,  "  it  were  the  will 
of  God  that  you  should  live  many  years  yet." 

"That  cannot  be.  And  why  should  you  wish  it  for 
me?  Is  it  not  better  to  depart  and  be  with  him? 
What  pleasure  could  it  be  to  a  weak,  worn  creature  like 
me  to  go  on  living  in  this  isle  of  banishment  ?  " 

"  But  suppose  you  were  to  recover  your  health  :  would 
it  not  be  delightful  to  do  something  for  his  sake  ?  If 
you  would  think  of  how  much  there  is  to  be  done  in  the 
world,  perhaps  you  would  wish  less  to  die  and  leave  it." 

"  Do  not  tempt  me,"  she  returned  reproachfully. 

And  then  she  quoted  a  passage  the  application  of 
which  to  her  own  case  appeared  to  me  so  irreverent,  that 


336  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

T  confess  I  felt  like  Abraham  with  the  idolater ;  so  far 
at  least  as  to  wish  her  out  of  the  house,  for  I  could  bear 
with  her,  I  thoufjht,  no  longer. 

She  did  leave  it  the  next  day,  and  I  breathed  more 
freely  than  since  she  had  entered  it. 

My  husband  came  down  to  fetch  me  the  following 
day ;  and  a  walk  with  him  along  the  cliffs  in  the  gather- 
ing twilight,  during  which  I  recounted  the  affec- 
tations of  my  late  visitor,  completely  wiped  the  cobwebs 
from  my  mental  windows,  and  enabled  me  to  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  Mrs.  Cromwell  was  but  a  spoiled  child, 
who  would,  somehow  or  other,  be  brought  to  her  senses 
before  all  was  over.  I  was  ashamed  of  my  impatience 
with  her,  and  believed  if  I  could  have  learned  her  history, 
of  which  she  had  told  me  nothing,  it  would  have  ex- 
plained the  rare  phenomenon  of  one  apparently  able  to 
look  death  in  the  face  v/ith  so  little  of  the  really  spiritual 
to  support  her,  for  she  seemed  to  me  to  know  Christ  only 
after  the  flesh.  But  had  she  indeed  ever  looked  death  in 
the  face  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

MRS.    CKOMWELL    GOES. 

I  HEARD  nothing  more  of  lier  for  about  a  year.  A 
note  or  two  passed  between  us,  and  tlien  all  communica- 
tion ceased.  This,  I  am  happy  to  think,  was  not  imme- 
diately my  fault :  not  that  it  mattered  much,  for  we  were 
not  then  fitted  for  much  communiou  ;  we  had  too  little 
in  common  to  commune. 

'■  Did  you  not  both  believe  in  one  Lord  ?  "  I  fancy  a 
reader  objecting.  "  How,  then,  can  you  say  you  had  too 
little  in  common  to  be  able  to  commune  ?  " 

I  said  the  same  to  myself,  and  tried  the  question  in 
many  ways.  The  fact  remained,  that  we  could  not  com- 
mune, that  is,  with  any  heartiness ;  and,  although  I 
may  have  done  her  wrong,  it  was,  I  thought,  to  be  ac- 
counted for  something  in  this  way.  The  Saviour  of 
whom  she  spoke  so  often,  and  evidently  thought  so  much, 
was  in  a  great  measure  a  being  of  her  own  fancy  ;  so  much 
so,  tliat  she  manifested  no  desire  to  find  out  what  the 
Christ  was  who  had  spent  tluree  and  thirty  j'^ears  in 
making  a  revelation  of  liim&elf  to  the  world.  The  knowl- 
edge she  had  about  him  was  not  even  at  second-hand, 
but  at  mau}^  removes.  She  did  not  study  his  words  or 
his  actions  to  learn  his  thoughts  or  his  meanings;  but 
lived  in  a  kind  of  dreamland  of  her  own,  which  could  be 
interesting  only  to  the  dreamer.  ISTow,  if  we  are  to  come 
to  God  through  Christ,  it  must  surely  be  by  knowing 
Christ;  it  must  be  through  the  knowledge  of  Christ  that 
the  Spirit  of  the  Father  mainly  works  in  the  members  of 
his  body ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  she  did  not  take  the 
trouble  to  "  know  him  and  the  power  of  his  resurrection." 
Therefore  we  had  scarcely  enough   of  common   ground, 

337 


338  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

as  I  say,  to  meet  upon.  I  could  not  help  contrasting 
lier  religion  with  that  of  Marion  Clare. 

At  length  I  had  a  note  from  her,  begging  me  to  go 
and  see  her  at  her  house  at  Richmond,  and  apologizing 
for  her  not  coming  to  me,  on  the  score  of  her  health. 
I -felt  it  my  dut)-  to  go,  but  sadly  grudged  the  loss  of 
time  it  seemed,  for  I  expected  neither  pleasure  nor  profit 
from  the  visit.  Percivale  went  with  me,  and  left  me  at 
the  door  to  have  a  row  on  the  river,  and  call  for  me  at  a 
certain  hour. 

The  house  and  grounds  were  luxurious  and  lovely 
both,  two  often  dissociated  qualities.  She  could  have 
nothing  to  desire  of  this  world's  gifts,  I  thought  But 
the  moment  she  entered  the  room  into  which  I  ha^lbeeu 
shown,  I  was  shocked  at  the  change  I  saw  in  her.  Al- 
most to  my  horror,  she  was  in  a  widow's  cap ;  and  dis- 
ease and  coming  death  were  plain  on  every  feature. 
Such  was  the  contrast,  that  the  face  in  my  memory 
appeared  that  of  health. 

"  ]\Iy  dear  Mrs.  Cromwell !  "  I  gasped  out. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  and  sitting  down  on  a  straight- 
backed  chair,  looked  at  me  with  lustreless  eyes. 

Death  had  been  hovering  about  her  windows  be- 
fore, but  had  entered  at  last ;  not  to  take  the  sickly 
young  woman  longing  to  die,  but  the  hale  man,  who 
would  have  clung  to  the  last  edge  of  life. 

"  He  is  taken,  and  I  am  left,"  she  said  abruptly,  after 
a  long  pause. 

Her  drawl  had  vanished :  pain  and  grief  had  made 
her  simple.  "  Then,"  I  thought  with  myself,  "  she  did 
love  him ! "  But  I  could  say  nothing.  She  took  my 
silence  for  the  sympathy  it  was,  and  smiled  a  heart-rend- 
ing smile,  so  different  from  that  little  sad  smile  she 
used  to  have ;  really  pathetic  now,  and  with  hardly  a 
glimmer  in  it  of  the  old  self-pity.  I  rose,  put  my  arms 
about  her,  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead  ;  she  laid  her 
head  on  my  shoulder,  and  wept. 

"  Whom  the  ]jord  lovetli  he  chasteneth,"  I  faltered 
out,  for  her  sorrow  filled  me  with  a  respect  that  was  new. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  339 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  as  gentlj'  as  hopelessly ;  "  and 
whom  he  does  not  love  as  well." 

"You  have  no  ground  for  saying  so,"  I  answered. 
"  The  apostle  does  not." 

''  My  lamp  is  gone  out,"  she  said ;  "  gone  out  in 
darkness,  utter  darkness.  You  warned  me,  and  I  did 
not  heed  the  warning.  I  thought  I  knew  better,  but  I 
was  full  of  self-conceit.  And  now  I  am  wandering  where 
there  is  no  way  and  no  light.  My  iniquities  have  found 
me  out." 

I  did  not  say  what  I  thought  I  saw  plain  enough,  — 
that  her  lamp  was  just  beginning  to  burn.  Neither  did 
I  try  to  persuade  her  that  her  iniquities  were  small. 

"  But  the  Bridegroom,"  I  said,  "  is  not  yet  come. 
There  is  time  to  go  and  get  some  oil." 

"  Where  am  I  to  get  it  ?  "  she  returned,  in  a  tone  of 
despair. 

''  From  the  Bridegroom  himself,"  I  said. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  have  talked  and  talked  and 
talked,  and  you  know  he  says  he  abhors  talkers.  I  am 
one  of  those  to  whom  he  will  say  '  I  know  you  not.' " 

"  And  you  will  answer  him  that  you  have  eaten  and 
drunk  in  his  presence,  and  cast  out  devils,  and  —  ?  " 

"  No,  no  :  I  will  say  he  is  right ;  that  it  is  all  my 
own  fault ;  that  I  thought  I  was  something  when  I  was 
nothing,  but  that  I  know  better  now." 

A  dreadful  fit  of  coughing  interrupted  her.  As  soon 
as  it  was  over,  I  said,  — 

"  And  what  will  the  Lord  say  to  you,  do  you  think, 
when  you  have  said  so  to  him  ?  " 

"  Depart  from  me,"  she  answered  m  a  hollow,  forced 
voice. 

"  No,"  I  returned.  "  He  will  say,  '  I  know  you 
well.     You  have  told  me  the  truth.     Come  in.'  " 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  she  cried.  "  You  never  used  to 
think  well  of  me." 

"  Those  who  were  turned  away,"  I  said,  avoiding  her 
last  words,  "  were  trying  to  make  themselves  out  better 
than  they  were  :  they  trusted,  not  in  the  love  of  Christ, 
but  in  what  they  thought  their  worth  and  social  stand- 


340  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

ing.  Perhaps,  if  their  deeds  had  been  as  good  as  they 
thought  them,  they  would  have  known  better  tlian  to 
trust  in  them.  If  they  had  told  him  the  truth  ;  if  they 
had  said,  '  Lord,  we  are  workers  of  iniquity ;  Lord,  we 
used  to  be  hypocrites,  but  we  speak  the  truth  now :  for- 
give us,'  —  do  you  think  he  would  then  have  turned 
them  away  ?  No,  surely.  If  your  lamp  has  gone  out, 
make  haste  and  tell  him  how  careless  you  have  been  ; 
tell  him  all,  and  pray  him  for  oil  and  light ;  and  see 
whether  your  lamp  will  not  straightway  glimmer,  —  glim- 
mer first  and  then  glow." 

''  Ah,  Mrs.  Percivale  !  "  she  cried  :  "  I  would  do  some- 
thing for  his  sake  now  if  I  might,  but  I  cannot.  If  I 
had  but  resisted  the  disease  in  me  for  the  sake  of  serv- 
ing him,  I  might  have  been  able  now:  but  my  chance  is 
over;  I  cannot  now;  I  have  too  much  pain.  And  death 
looks  such  a  different  thing  now  !  I  used  to  think  of  it 
only  as  a  kind  of  going  to  sleep,  easy  though  sad  —  sad, 
I  mean,  in  the  eyes  of  mourning  friends.  But,  alas!  I 
have  no  friends,  now  that  my  husband  is  gone.  I  nevei 
dreamed  of  him  going  first.  He  loved  me  :  indeed  he 
did,  though  you  will  hardly  believe  it ;  but  I  always  took 
it  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  never  saw  how  beautiful  and 
unselfish  he  was  till  he  was  gone.  I  have  been  selfish 
and  stupid  and  dull,  and  my  sins  have  found  me  out.  A 
great  darkness  has  fallen  upon  me ;  and  although  weary 
of  life,  instead  of  longing  for  death,  1  shrink  from  it  with 
horror.  My  cough  will  not  let  me  sleep :  there  is  noth- 
ing but  weariness  in  my  body,  and  despair  in  my  heart. 
Oh  how  black  and  dreary  the  nights  are  !  I  think  of  the 
time  in  your  house  as  of  an  earthly  paradise.  But 
where  is  the  heavenly  paradise  I  used  to  dream  of  then  ? '' 

"  Would  it  content  you,"  I  asked,  "  to  be  able  to  dream 
of  it  again  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  I  want  something  very  different  now. 
Those  fancies  look  so  uninteresting  and  stupid  now  !  All 
I  want  now  is  to  hear  God  say,  '  I  forgive  you.'  And 
my  husband  —  I  must  have  troubled  him  sorely.  You 
don't  know  how  good  he  was,  Mrs.  Percivale.  lie  made 
no  pretences  like  silly  me.     Do  you  know,"  she  went  on. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  341 

lowering  her  voice,  and  speaking  with  something  like 
horror  in  its  tone,  *^  Do  you  know,  I  cannot  hear 
hymns ! " 

As  she  said  it,  she  looked  up  in  my  face  half-terrified 
with  the  anticipation  of  the  horror  she  expected  to  see 
manifested  there.  I  could  not  help  smiling.  The  case 
was  not  one  for  argument  of  any  kind :  I  thought  for  a 
moment,  then  merely  repeated  the  verse,  — 

"  When  the  law  threatens  endless  death. 

Upon  the  awful  hill, 
Straightway,  from  her  consuming  breath, 

My  soul  goes  higher  still,  — 
Goeth  to  Jesus,  wounded,  slain, 

And  maketh  him  her  home. 
Whence  she  will  not  go  out  again, 

And  where  Death  cannot  come." 

'*'  Ah  !  that  is  good,"  she  said :  "  if  only  I  could  get 
to  him  !  But  I  cannot  get  to  him.  He  is  so  far  off!  He 
seems  to  be  —  nowhere." 

I  think  she  was  going  to  say  nobody,  but  changed  the 
word. 

"  If  you  felt  for  a  moment  how  helpless  and  wretched  I 
feel,  especially  in  the  early  morning,"  she  went  on  ;  "  how 
there  seems  nothing  to  look  for,  and  no  help  to  be  had,  — 
you  would  pity  rather  than  blame  me,  though  I  know  I 
deserve  blame.  I  feel  as  if  all  the  heart  and  soul  and 
strength  and  mind,  with  which  we  are  told  to  love  God, 
had  gone  out  of  me ;  or,  rather,  as  if  I  had  never  had 
any.  I  doubt  if  I  ever  had.  I  tried  very  hard  for  a  long 
time  to  get  a  sight  of  Jesus,  to  feel  myself  in  his  presence  ; 
but  it  was  of  no  use,  and  I  have  quite  given  it  up  now." 

I  made  her  lie  on  the  sofa,  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

''  Do  you  think,"  I  said,  "  that  any  one,  before  he  came, 
could  have  imagined  such  a  visitor  to  the  world  as  Jesus 
Christ?" 

''  I  suppose  not,"  she  answered  listlessly. 

"  Then,  no  more  can  you  come  near  him  now  by  trying 
to  imagine  him.  You  cannot  represent  to,  yourself  the 
i'eality,  the  Being  who  can  comfort  you.  In  other  words, 
you  cannot  take  him  into  your  heart.  He  only  knows 
himself,  and  he  only  can  reveal  himself  to  you.     And 


342  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

not  until  he  does  so,  can  you  find  any  certainty  or  any 
peace." 

"  But  he  doesn't  —  he  won't  reveal  himself  to  me." 

"  Suppose  you  had  forgotten  what  some  friend  of  your 
childhood  was  like — say,  if  it  were  possihle,  your  own 
mother ;  suppose  you  could  not  recall  a  feature  of  her 
face,  or  the  color  of  her  eyes;  and  suppose,  that,  while  you 
were  very  miserahle  about  it,  you  remembered  all  at  once 
that  you  had  a  portrait  of  her  in  an  old  desk  you  had 
not  opened  for  years  :  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  Go  and  get  it,"  she  answered  like  a  child  at  the 
Sunday  school. 

•*  Then  why  shouldn't  you  do  so  now  ?  You  have  such 
a  portrait  of  Jesus,  far  truer  and  more  complete  than 
any  other  kind  of  portrait  can  be,  —  the  portrait  his  own 
deeds  and  words  give  us  of  him." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean  ;  but  that  is  all  al:)out  long  ago, 
and  I  want  him  now.  That  is  in  a  book,  and  I  want 
him  in  my  heart." 

"  How  are  you  to  get  him  into  your  heart  ?  How  could 
5^ou  have  him  th  ere,  except  by  knowing  him  ?  But  perhaps 
you  think  you  do  know  him  ?  " 

"  I  am  certain  I  do  not  know  him  ;  at  least,  as  I  want 
to  know  him,"  she  said. 

"No  doubt,"  I  went  on,  "he  can  speak  to  your  heart 
without  the  record,  and,  I  think,  is  sj^eaking  to  you  now 
in  this  very  want  of  him  you  feel.  But  how  could  he 
show  himself  to  you  otherwise  than  by  helping  you  to 
understand  the  revelation  of  himself  which  it  cost  him 
such  labor  to  aftbrd  ?  If  the  story  were  millions  of  years 
old,  so  long  as  it  was  true,  it  would  be  all  the  same  as  if 
it  had  been  ended  only  yesterday;  for,  being  what  he 
represented  himself,  he  never  can  change.  To  know 
what  he  was  then,  is  to  know  what  he  is  now." 

"  But,  if  I  knew  him  so,  that  wouldn't  be  to  have  him 
with  me." 

"No;  but  ,in  that  knowledge  he  might  come  to  you. 
It  is  by  the  ctoor  of  that  knowledge  that  his  Spirit,  which 
is  himself,  comes  into  the  soul.  You  would  at  least  be 
more  able  to  pray  to  him  :  you  would  know  what  kind  of  a 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  343 

being  you  had  to  cry  to.  You  would  thus  come  nearer 
to  him  ;  and  no  one  ever  drew  nigh  to  him  to  whom  he 
did  not  also  draw  nigh.  If  you  would  but  read  the  story 
as  if  you  had  never  read  it  before,  as  if  you  were  reading 
the  history  of  a  man  you  heard  of  for  the  first  time  "  — 

"  Surely  you're  not  a  Unitarian,  Mrs.  Percivale  ! " 
she  said,  half  lifting  her  head,  and  looking  at  me  with  a 
dim  terror  in  her  pale  eyes. 

"God  forbid!''  I  answered.  "But  I  would  that 
many  who  think  they  know  better  believed  in  him  half 
as  much  as  many  Unitarians  do.  It  is  only  l)y  under- 
standing and  believing  in  that  humanitj''  of  his,  which 
in  such  pain  and  labor  manifested  his  Godhead,  that  we 
can  come  to  know  it,  —  know  that  Godhead,  I  mean,  in 
virtue  of  which  alone  he  was  a  true  and  perfect  man  ; 
that  Godhead  which  alone  can  satisfy  with  peace  and 
hope  the  poorest  human  soul,  for  it  also  is  the  offspsing 
of  God." 

I  ceased,  and  for  some  moments  she  sat  silent.  Then 
she  said  feebl}-,  — 

"  There's  a  Bible  somewhere  in  the  room."' 

I  found  it,  and  read  the  story  of  the  woman  wlio 
came  behind  him  in  terror,  and  touched  the  hem  of  his 
garment.  I  could  hardly  read  it  for  the  emotion  it 
caused  in  myself;  and  when  I  ceased  I  saw  her  weeping 
silently. 

A  servant  entered  with  the  message  that  Mr.  Percivale 
had  called  for  me. 

"  I  cannot  see  him  to-day,"  she  sobbed. 

"  Of  course  not,"  I  replied.  "  I  must  leave  you  now  ; 
but  I  will  come  again,  —  come  often  if  you  like." 

"  You  are  as  kind  as  ever  !  "  she  returned,  with  a  fresh 
burst  of  tears.  "Will  you  come  and  be  with  me  when 
—  when—?" 

She  could  not  finish  for  sobs. 

"  I  will,"  I  said,  knowing  well  what  she  meant. 

This  is  how  I  imagined  the  change  to  have  come 
about :  what  had  seemed  her  faith  had  been,  in  a  great 
measure,  but  her  hope  and  imagination,  occupying  them- 
selves with  the  forms  of  the  religion  towards  which  all 


344  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

that  was  highest  in  her  nature  dimly  urged.  The  two 
characteristics  of  amiability  and  selfishness,  not  unfre- 
quently  combined,  rendered  it  easy  for  lier  to  deceive 
herself,  or  rather  conspired  to  prevent  her  from  vmde- 
ceiving  herself,  as  to  the  quality  and  worth  of  her  religion. 
For,  if  she  had  been  other  than  amiable,  the  misery  fol- 
lowing the  outbreaks  of  temper  which  would  have  been 
of  certain  occurrence  in  the  state  of  her  health,  would 
have  made  lier  aware  in  some  degree  of  her  moral  condi- 
tion ;  and,  if  her  thoughts  had  not  been  centred  upon 
herself,  she  would,  in  her  care  for  others,  have  learned 
her  own  helplessness  ;  and  the  devotion  of  her  good  hus- 
band, not  then  accepted  merely  as  a  natural  homage  to 
her  worth,  would  have  shown  itself  as  a  love  beyond  her 
deserts,  and  would  have  roused  the  longing  to  be  worthy 
of  it.  She  saw  now  that  he  must  have  imagined  her  far 
better  than  she  was:  but  she  liad  not  meant  to  deceive 
him  ;  she  had  but  followed  the  impulses  of  a  bright, 
shallow  nature. 

But  that  last  epithet  bids  me  pause,  and  remember  that 
my  father  has  taught  me,  and  that  I  have  found  the 
lesson  true,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  shallow  na- 
ture :  every  nature  is  infinitely  deep,  for  the  works  of 
God  are  everlasting.  Also,  there  is  no  nature  that  is  not 
shallow  to  what  it  must  become.  I  suspect  every  nature 
must  have  the  subsoil  ploughing  of  sorrow,  before  it  can 
recognize  either  its  present  poverty  or  its  possible  wealth. 

When  her  husband  died,  suddenly,  of  apoplexy,  she 
was  stunned  for  a  time,  gradually  awaking  to  a  miserable 
sense  of  unprotected  loneliness,  so  much  the  more 
painful  for  her  weakly  condition,  and  the  overcare  to 
^vhich  she  had  been  accustomed.  She  was  an  only  child, 
■and  had  become  an  orphan  within  a  year  or  two  after  her 
early  marriage.  Left  thus  without  shelter,  like  a  deli- 
cate plant  whose  house  of  glass  has  been  shattered,  she 
speedily  recognized  her  true  condition.  With  no  one  to 
heed  her  whims,  and  no  one  capable  of  sympathizing 
with  the  genuine  misery  which  supervened,  her  disease 
gathered  strength  rapidly,  her  lamp  went  out,  and  she 
saw  no  light  beyond ;  for  the  smoke   of  that  lamp  had 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  345 

dimmed  the  windows  at  which  the  stars  would  have 
looked  in.  When  life  became  dreary,  her  fancies,  de- 
spoiled of  the  halo  they  had  cast  on  the  fogs  of  selfish 
comfort,  ceased  to  interest  her ;  and  the  future  grew  a 
,vague  darkness,  an  un.certainty  teeming  with  questions 
to  which  she  had  no  answer.  Henceforth  she  was  con- 
scious of  life  only  as  a  weakness,  as  the  want  of  a  deep- 
er life  to  hold  it  up.  Existence  had  become  a  during 
faint,  and  self  hateful.  She  saw  that  she  was  poor  and. 
miserable  and  blind  and  naked,  —  that  she  had  never  had 
faith  fit  to  support  her. 

But  out  of  this  darkness  dawned  at  least  a  twilight, 
so  gradual,  so  slow,  that  I  cannot  tell  when  or  how  the 
darkness  began  to  melt.  She  became  aware  of  a  deeper 
and  simpler  need  than  hitherto  she  had  known,  —  the 
need  of  life  in  herself,  the  life  of  the  Son  of  God.  I 
went  to  see  her  often.  At  the  time  when  I  began  this 
history,  I  was  going  every  other  day,  —  sometimes  often- 
er,  for  her  end  seemed  to  be  drawiugr  nigh.  Her  weakness 
had  greatly  increased  :  she  could  but  jiist  walk  across  the 
room,  and  was  constantly  restless.  She  had  no  great 
continuous  pain,  but  oft-returning  sharp  fits  of  it.  She 
looked  genuinely  sad,  and  her  spirits  never  recovered 
themselves.  She  seldom  looked  out  of  the  window ;  the 
daylight  seemed  to  distress  her :  flowers  were  the  only 
links  between  her  and  the  outer  world,  —  wild  ones,  for 
the  scent  of  greenhouse-flowers,  and  even  that  of  most 
garden  ones,  she  could  not  bear.  She  had  been  very 
fond  of  music,  but  could  no  longer  endure  her  piano : 
every  note  seemed  struck  on  a  nerve.  But  she  was  gen- 
erally quiet  in  her  mind,  and  often  peaceful.  The  more 
her  body  decayed  about  her,  the  more  her  spirit  seemed 
to  come  alive.  It  was  the  calm  of  a  gray  evening,  not 
so  lovely  as  a  golden  sunset  or  a  silvery  moonlight,  but 
more  sweet  than  either.  She  talked  little  of  her  feel- 
ings, but  evidently  longed  after  the  words  of  our  Lord. 
As  she  listened  to  some  of  them,  I  could  see  the  eyes 
which  had  now  grown  dim  with  suftering,  gleam  with 
the  light  of  holy  longing  and  humble  adoration. 

For  some  time  she  often  referred  to  her  coming  depart- 


31G  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

ure,  and  confessed  tliat  she  feared  death  ;  not  so  much 
Avhat  might  be  on  the  otlier  side,  as  the  dark  way  itself, 
—  the  struggle,  the  torture,  the  fainting;  but  by  de- 
grees her  allusions  to  it  became  rarer,  and  at  length  ceasea 
almost  entirely.     Once  I  said  to  her, — 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  death  still,  Eleanor  ?  " 

''No  —  not  much,"  she  replied,  after  a  brief  pause. 
"  He  may  do  with  me  whatever  He  likes." 

Knowing  so  well  what  Marion  could  do  to  comfort  and 
support,  and  therefore  desirous  of  bringing  them  to- 
gether, I  took  her  one  day  with  me.  But  certain  that 
the  thought  of  seeing  a  stranger  would  render  my  poor 
Eleanor  uneasy,  and  that  what  discomposure  a  sudden 
introduction  miglit  cause  would  speedily  vanish  in  Mar- 
ion's presence,  I  did  not  tell  her  what  I  was  going  to  do. 
Nor  in  this  did  I  mistake.  Before  we  left,  it  was  plain 
that  Marion  had  a  far  more  soothing  influence  upon  her 
than  I  had  myself.  She  looked  eagerly  for  her  next 
visit,  and  my  mind  was  now  more  at  peace  concerning 
her. 

One  evening,  after  listening  to  some  stories  from  Mar- 
ion about  her  friends,  IMrs.  Cromwell  said,  — 

"  Ah,  Miss  Clare  !  to  think  1  might  have  done  some- 
thing for  Him  by -doing  it  for  them  /  Alas  !  I  have  led  a 
useless  life,  and  am  dying  out  of  this  world  without 
having  borne  any  fruit !     Ah,  me,  me  !  " 

''You  are  doing  a  good  deal  for  him  now,"  said  Mar- 
ion, "and  hard  work  too!"  she  added;  "harder  far 
than  mine." 

"  I  am  only  dying,"  she  returned  —  so  sadly  ! 

"You  are  enduring  chastisement,"  said  Marior,. 
"  The  Lord  gives  one  one  thing  to  do,  and  another  an- 
other. We  have  no  right  to  wish  for  other  work  than  ho 
gives  us.  It  is  rebellious  and  unchildlike,  whatever  it 
may  seem.  Neither  have  we  any  right  to  wish  to  be 
better  in  our  way :  we  must  wish  to  be  better  in  his." 

"But  I  shouldYike  to  do  something  for  him;  bearing 
is  only  for  myself     Surely  I  may  wish  that  ?  " 

"  No :  you  may  not.  Bearing  is  not  only  for  yourself. 
You  are  quite  wrong  in  thinking  you  do  nothing  for  him 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  347 

in  5iidurixig,"  returned  Marion,  with  that  abrupt  decis- 
ion of  hers  which  seemed  to  some  like  rudeness.  "  What 
is  the  will  of  God  ?  Is  it  not  your  sanctification  ?  And 
why  did  he  make  the  Captain  of  our  salvation  perfect 
through  suffering  ?  Was  it  not  that  he  might  in  like 
manner  bring  many  sons  into  glory  ?  Then,  if  you  are 
enduring,  you  are  working  with  God,  —  for  the  perfection 
through  suffering  of  one  more  :  you  are  working  for  God 
in  yourself,  that  the  will  of  God  may  be  done  in  you ; 
that  he  may  have  his  very  own  way  with  you.  It  is  the 
only  work  he  requires  of  you  now :  do  it  not  only  will- 
ingly, then,  but  contentedly.  To  make  people  good  is  all 
his  labor :  be  good,  and  3'ou  are  a  fellow-worker  with 
God  in  the  highest  region  of  labor.  He  does  not 
want  you  for  other  people  —  ye^." 

At  the  emphasis  Marion  laid  on  the  last  word,  Mrs. 
Cromwell  glanced  sharply  up.  A  light  broke  over  her 
face :  she  had  understood,  and  with  a  smile  was  silent. 

One  evening,  when  we  were  both  with  her,  it  had 
gro<^n  very  sultry  and  breathless. 

"  Isn't  it  very  close,  dear  Mrs.  Percivale  ?  "  she  said. 

I  rose  to  get  a  fan  ;  and  Marion,  leaving  the  window  as 
if  moved  by  a  sudden  resolve,  went  and  opened  the  piano. 
Mrs.  Cromwell  made  a  hasty  motion,  as  if  she  must  pre- 
vent her.  But,  such  was  my  faith  in  my  friend's  soul 
as  well  as  heart,  in  her  divine  taste  as  well  as  her  human 
facult}',  that  I  ventured  to  lay  my  hand  on  Mrs.  Crom- 
well's. It  was  enough  for  sweetness  like  hers :  she 
yielded  instantlj^,  and  lay  still,  evidently  nerving  herself 
to  suffer.  But  the  first  movement  stole  so  "  soft  and 
soullike  "  on  her  ear,  trembling  as  it  were  on  the  bor- 
der-land between  sound  and  silence,  that  she  missed  the 
pain  she  expected,  and  found  onlj'  the  pleasure  she 
looked  not  for.  Marion's  hands  made  the  instrument 
sigh  and  sing,  not  merelj'  as  with  a  human  voice,  but  as 
with  a  human  soul.  Her  own  voice  next  evolved  itself 
from  the  dim  uncertainty,  in  sweet  proportions  and  deli- 
cate modulations,  stealing  its  way  into  the  heart,  to  set 
first  one  chord,  then  another,  vibrating,  until  the  whole 
soul  was  filled  with  responses.     If  I  add  that  her  articu- 


348  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

lation  was  as  nearly  perfect  as  the  act  of  singing  will 
permit,  my  reader  may  well  believe  that  a  song  of  hers 
would  do  what  a  song  might. 

Where  she  got  the  song  she  then  sung,  she  always 
avoids  telling  me.  I  had  told  her  all  I  knew  and  under- 
stood concerning  Mrs.  Cromwell,  and  have  my  sus- 
picions.    This  is  the  song :  — 

"  I  fancy  I  hear  a  whisper 
As  of  leaves  in  a  ji^entle  air  : 
Is  it  wrong,  I  wonder,  to  fancy 
It  may  be  the  tree  up  there  ■?  — 
The  tree  that  heals  the  nations, 
Growing  amidst  the  street. 
And  dropping,  for  who  will  gather. 
Its  apples  at  their  feet  1 

I  fancy  I  hear  a  rushing 

As  of  waters  down  a  slope : 

Is  it  \vrong,  I  wonder,  to  fancy 

It  may  be  the  river  of  hope  1 

The  river  of  crystal  waters 

That  flows  from  the  very  throne, 

And  runs  through  the  street  of  the  city 

With  a  softly  jubilant  tone  "i 

I  fancy  af  twilight  round  me, 

And  a  wandering  of  the  breeze. 

With  a  hush  in  that  high  city. 

And  a  going  in  the  trees. 

But  I  know  there  will  be  no  night  there,  — 

No  coming  and  going  day ; 

Por  the  holy  face  of  the  Father 

Will  be  perfect  light  alway. 

I  could  do  without  the  darkness. 

And  better  without  the  sun  ; 

But,  oh,  I  should  like  a  twilight 

After  the  day  was  done  ! 

Would  he  lay  his  hand  on  his  forehead, 

On  his  hair  as  white  as  wool, 

And  shine  one  hour  through  his  fingers. 

Till  the  shadow  had  made  me  cool  ? 

But  the  thought  is  very  foolish : 
If  that  face  1  did  but  see, 
All  else  would  be  all  forgotten,  — 
River  and  twilight  and  tree  ; 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGUTER.  349 

I  should  seek,  I  should  care,  for  nothing, 
Beholding  his  countenance ; 
And  fear  only  to  lose  one  glimmer 
By  one  single  sideway  glance. 

'Tis  but  again  a  foolish  fancy 
To  picture  the  countenance  so. 
Which  is  shining  in  all  our  spirits. 
Making  them  white  as  snow. 
Come  to  mi',  shine  in  me.  Master, 
And  I  care  not  for  river  or  tree,  — 
Care  for  no  sorrow  or  crying, 
If  only  thou  shine  in  me. 

I  would  lie  on  my  bed  for  ages, 
Looking  out  on  the  dusty  street, 
Where  whisper  nor  leaves  nor  waters. 
Nor  any  thing  cool  and  sweet  ; 
At  my  heart  this  ghastly  fainting, 
And  this  burning  in  my  blood,  — 
If  only  I  knew  thou  wast  with  me,  — 
Wast  with  me  and  making  me  good." 

When  she  rose  from  the  piano,  Mrs.  Cromwell 
stretched  out  her  hand  for  hers,  and  held  it  some  time, 
unable  to  speak.     Then  she  said,  — 

"  That  lias  done  me  good,  I  hope.  I  will  try  to  be 
more  patient,  for  I  think  He  is  teacliing  me." 

She  died,  at  length,  in  my  arms.  I  cannot  linger  over 
that  last  time.  She  suifered  a  good  deal,  but  dying  peo- 
ple are  generally  patient.  She  went  without  a  struggle. 
The  last  words  I  heard  her  utter  were,  "  Yes,  Lord  ; " 
after  which  she  breathed  but  once.  A  half-smile  came 
over  her  face,  which  froze  upon  it,  and  remained,  until 
the  coffin-lid  covered  it.  But  I  shall  see  it,  I  trust,  a 
whole  smile  some  day. 

30 


CHAPTER    XXXTX. 

ANCESTRAL   WISDOM. 

I  DID  think  of  having  a  chapter  about  children  before 

finishing  my  book ;  but  this  is  not  going  to  be  the  kind 
of  chapter  I  thouglit  of.  Like  most  motliers,  I  suppose, 
I  tliinlv  myself  an  authority  on  the  subject ;  and,  which 
is  to  me  more  assuring  than  any  judgment  of  my  own, 
my  father  says  that  I  have  been  in  a  measure  successful 
in  bringing  mine  up,  —  only  they're  not  brought  up  very 
far  yet.  Hence  arose  the  temptation  to  lay  down  a  few 
practical  rules  I  had  proved  and  found  answer.  But,  as 
soon  as  I  began  to  contemplate  the  writing  of  them 
down,  I  began  to  imagine  80-and-so  and  So-and-so  at- 
tempting to  carry  them  out,  and  saw  what  ^  dreadful 
muddle  they  would  make  of  it,  and  what  miscliief  would 
thence  lie  at  my  door.  Only  one  thing  can  be  worse 
than  the  attempt  to  carry  out  rules  whose  princi[)les  are 
not  understood ;  and  that  is  the  neglect  of  those  which 
are  understood,  and  seen  to  be  right.  Suppose,  for  in- 
stance, I  were  to  say  that  corporal  punishment  was  whole- 
some, involving  less  suffering  than  most  other  punish- 
ments, more  effectual  in  the  result,  and  leaving  no  sting 
or  sense  of  unkindness  ;  whereas  mental  punishment, 
considered  by  many  to  be  more  refined,  and  therefore 
less  degrading,  was  often  cruel  to  a  sensitive  child,  and 
deadening  to  a  stubborn  one :  suppose  I  said  this,  and 
a  woman  like  my  Aunt _Millicent  were  to  take  it  up: 
Iter  whippings  would  have  no  more  eftect  than  if  her  rod 
were  made  of  butterflies'  feathers  ;  they  would  be  a  mock- 
ery to  her  children,  and  bring  law  into  contempt ;  while 
if  a  certain  father  I  know  were  to  be  convinced  by  my 
arguments,  he  would  fill  his  children  with  terror  of  him 
350 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  35I 

now,  and  with  hatred  afterwards.  Of  the  last-mentioned 
result  of  severity,  I  know  at  least  one  instance.  At 
present,  the  father  to  whom  I  refer  disapproves  of  whip- 
ping even  a  man  who  has  been  dancing  on  his  wife  with 
hob-nailed  shoes,  because  it  would  tend  to  brutalize  him. 
But  he  taunts  and  stings,  and  confines  in  solitude  for 
lengthened  periods,  high-spirited  boys,  and  that  for  faults 
which  I  should  consider  very  venial. 

Then,  again,  if  I  were  to  lay  down  the  rule  that  we 
must  be  as  tender  of  the  feelings  of  our  children  as  if 
they  were  angel-babies  who  had  to  learn,  alas  !  to  under- 
stand our  rough  ways,  how  would  that  be  taken  by  a 
certain  French  couple  I  know,  who,  not  appearing  until 
after  the  dinner  to  which  they  had  accepted  an  invita- 
tion was  over,  gave  as  the  reason,  that  it  had  been 
quite  out  of  their  power;  for  darling  Desiree,  their  only 
child,  had  declared  they  shouldn't  go,  and  that  she  would 
cry  if  they  did ;  nay,  went  so  far  as  to  insist  on  their 
going  to  bed,  which  they  were,  however  reluctant,  com- 
pelled to  do.  They  had  actually  undressed,  and  pre- 
tended to  retire  for  the  night ;  but,  as  soon  as  she  was 
safely  asleep,  rose  and  joined  their  friends,  calm  in  the 
consciousness  of  abundant  excuse. 

The  marvel  to  me  is  that  so  many  children  turn  out  so 
well. 

After  all,  I  think  there  can  be  no  harm  in  mentioning 
a  few  general  principles  laid  down  by  my  father.  They 
are  such  as  to  commend  themselves  most  to  the  most 
practical. 

And  first  for  a  few  negative  ones. 

1.  Never  give  in  to  disobedience  ;  and  never  threaten 
what  you  are  not  prepared  to  carry  out. 

2.  Never  lose  your  temper.  I  do  not  say  never  be 
angry.  Anger  is  sometimes  indispensable,  especially 
where  there  has  been  any  thing  mean,  dishonest,  or  cruel. 
But  anger  is  very  different  from  loss  of  temper.* 

*  My  Aunt  Millicentis  always  saying,  '•  I  am  c/rleeeved  with  you."  But 
the  announcement  begets  no  sign  of  responsive  grief  on  the  face  of  the 
stolid  cliild before  lier.  She  never  whipped  a  cliild  in  her  life.  If  slie  had. 
and  it  had  but  roused  some  positive  auger  in  tlie  child,  instead  of  that 
undertone  of  complaint  which  is  always  oozing  out  of  every  one  of  them, 


352  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

3.  Of  all  tilings,  never  sneer  at  them ;  and  be  careful, 
even,  how  you  rally  them. 

4.  Do  not  try  to  work  on  their  feelings.  Feelings  are 
far  too  delicate  things  to  be  used  for  tools.  It  is  like 
taking  the  mainspring  out  of  your  watch,  and  notching  it 
for  a  saw.  It  may  be  a  wonderful  saw,  but  how  fares 
your  watch  ?  Especially  avoid  doing  so  in  connection 
with  religious  things,  for  so  you  will  assuredly  deaden 
them  to  all  that  is  linest.  Let  your  feelings,  not  your 
efforts  on  theirs,  affect  them  with  a  sympathy  the  moi'e 
powerful  that  it  is  not  forced  upon  them  ;  and,  in  order  to 
do  this,  avoid  being  too  English  in  the  hiding  of  your 
feelings.  A  man's  own  family  has  a  right  to  sliare  in  his 
good  feelings. 

5.  Never  show  that  you  doubt,  except  you  are  able  to 
convict.  To  doubt  an  honest  child  is  to  do  what  you  can 
to  make  a  liar  of  him ;  and  to  believe  a  liar,  if  he  is  not 
altogether  shameless,  is  to  shame  him. 

The  common-minded  masters  in  schools,  who,  unlike 
the  ideal  Arnold,  are  in  the  habit  of  disbelieving  boys, 
have  a  large'  share  in  making  tlie  liars  they  so  often  are. 
Certainly  the  vileness  of  a  lie  is  not  the  same  in  one  who 
knows  that  whatever  he  says  will  be  regarded  with  sus- 
picion ;  and  the  master,  who  does  not  know  an  honest 
boy  after  he  has  been  some  time  in  his  class,  gives  good 
reason  for  doubting  whether  he  be  himself  an  honest 
man,  and  incapable  of  the  lying  he  is  ready  to  attribute 
to  all  alike. 

Til  is  last  is  my  own  remark,  not  my  father's.  I  have 
an  honest  boy  at  school,  and  I  know  how  he  fares.  I 
gay  honest ;  for  thougli,  as  a  mother,  I  can  hardly  expect 

I  think  it  would  have  boen  a  gain.  But  the  poor  l.ady  is  one  of  the  whiny- 
piay  people,  and  must  be  in  preparation  for  a  development  of  which  I  have 
nq  prevision.  The  only  stroke  ol'  originality  I  thought  I  knew  of  her  was 
this :  to  the  register  of  her  children';*  births,  baptisms,  and  contirmations, 
entered  on  a  gr.indly-ornamented  lly-leaf  of  the  family  Bible,  she  has  sub- 
joined the  record  of  every  di.sease  each  has  had,  with  the  year,  month,  and 
day  (and  in  one  case  the  hour),  when  each  distemper  made  its  appearance. 
After  most  of  the  main  entries,  you  may  read,  "  Cut  his  (or  her)  first 
tooth"  —  at  such  ad'ate.  But,  alas  for  the  orighialityl  she  has  just  told 
me  that  her  maternal  grandmotlier  did  the  same.  How  strange  that  she 
and  my  father  should  liave  liad  the  same  father  I  II  they  had  had  the  same 
mother,  too,  I  should  have  been  utterly  bewildered. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUG TITER.  353 

to  be  believed,  I  have  ground  for  believing  that  he  would 
rather  die  than  lie.  I  know  /  would  rather  he  died  than 
lied. 

6.  Instil  no  religious  doctrine  apart  from  its  duty.  If 
it  have  no  duty  as  its  necessary  embodiment,  the  doc- 
trine may  well  be  regarded  as  doubtful. 

7.  Do  not  be  hard  on  mere  quarrelling,  which,  like  a 
storm  in  nature,  is  often  helpful  in  clearing  the  moral 
atmosphere.  Stop  it  by  a  judgment  between  the  parties. 
But  be  severe  as  to  the  kind  of  quarrelling,  and  the 
temper  shown  in  it.  Especially  give  no  quarter  to  any  un- 
fairness arising  from  greed  or  spite.  Use  your  strongest 
language  with  regard  to  that. 

Now  for  a  few  of  my  father's  positive  rules. 

1.  Always  let  them  come  to  you,  and  always  hear 
what  they  have  to  say.  If  they  bring  a  complaint, 
always  examine  into  it,  and  dispense  pure  justice,  and 
nothing  but  justice. 

2.  Cultivate  a  love  of  g'tvmg  fair-play.  Every  one,  of 
course,  likes  to  receive  fair-play;  but  no  one  ought  to  be 
left  to  imagine,  therefore,  that  he  looes  f air-plan . 

3.  Teach  from  the  very  first,  from  the  infancy  capa- 
ble of  sucking  a  sugar-pluin,  to  share  with  neighbors. 
Never  refuse  the  offering  a  child  brings  you,  except  you 
have  a  good  reason,  —  and  give  it.  And  never  pretend 
to  partake :  that  involves  hideous  possibilities  in  its 
effects  on  the  child. 

The  necessity  of  giving  a  reason  for  refusing  a  kind- 
ness has  no  relation  to  what  is  supposed  by  some  to  be 
the  necessity  of  giving  a  reason  with  every  command. 
There  is  no  such  necessity.  Of  course  there  ought  to  be 
a  reason  in  every  command.  That  it  may  be  desirable, 
sometimes,  to  explain  it,  is  all  my  father  would  allow. 

4.  Allow  a  great  deal  of  noise,  —  as  much  as  is  fairly 
endurable;  but,  the  moment  they  seem  getting  beyond 
their  own  control,  stop  the  noise  at  once.  Also  put  a 
stop  at  once  to  all  fretting  and  grumbling. 

5.  Eavor  the  development  of  each  in  the  direction  oi 
his  own  bent.  Help  him  to  develop  himself,  but  do  not 
push  development.     To  do  so  is  most  dangerous. 


354  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

6._  Mind  the  moral  nature,  and  it  will  take  care  of  the 
intellectual.  In  other  words,  the  hest  thing  for  the  intel- 
lect is  the  cultivation  of  the  conscience,  not  in  casuistry, 
but  in  conduct.  It  maj'-  take  longer  to  arrive  ;  but  the 
end  will  be  the  highest  possible  health,  vigor,  and  ratio 
of  progress. 

7.  Discourage  emulation,  and  insist  on  duty,  —  not 
often,  but  strongly. 

Having  written  these  out,  chiefly  from  notes  I  had 
made  of  a  long  talk  with  my  father,  I  gave  them  to  Per- 
civale  to  read. 

"Hather  —  ponderous,  don't  you  think,  for  weaving 
into  a  narrative  ?  "'  was  his  remark. 

"  ]\Iy  narrative  is  full  of  things  far  from  light,"  I  re- 
turned. 

"  I  didn't  say  they  were  heavy,  you  know.  That  is 
quite  another  thing." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  mean  generally  uninteresting.  But 
there  are  parents  who  might  make  them  useful,  and  the 
rest  of  my  readers  could  skip  them." 

"  I  only  mean  that  a  narrative,  be  it  ever  so  serious, 
must  not  intrench  on  the  moral  essay  or  sermon." 

'■'It  is  much  too  late,  I  fear,  to  tell  me  that.  But, 
please,  remember  I  am  not  giving  the  precepts  as  of  my 
own  discovery,  though  I  have  sought  to  verify  them  by 
practice,  but  as  what  they  are,  —  my  father's." 

He  did  not  seem  to  see  the  bearing  of  the  argument. 

"  I  want  my  book  to  be  useful,"  I  said.  "  As  a 
mother,  I  want  to  share  the  help  I  have  had  myself  with 
other  mothers." 

'•  I  am  only  speaking  from  the  point  of  art,"  he 
returned. 

'•' And  that's  a  point  I  have  never  thought  of;  any 
farther,  at  least,  than  writing  as  good  English  as  I 
might." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  never  thought  of  the 
shape  of  the  book  your  monthly  papers  would  make  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  think  I  have.  Scarcely  at  all,  I 
believe." 

"  Then  you  ought." 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  355 

"But  I  know  nothing  about  that  kind  of  thing.  I 
haven't  an  idea  in  my  head  concerning  the  art  of  book- 
making.  And  it  is  too  late,  so  far  at  least  as  this  book 
is  concerned,  to  begin  to  study  it  now." 

"  I  wonder  how  my  pictures  woukl  get  on  in  that  way." 

"  You  can  see  how  my  book  has  got  on.  Well  or  ill, 
there  it  all  but  is.  I  had  to  do  with  facts,  and  not  with 
art." 

"  But  even  a  biography,  in  the  ordering  of  its  parts, 
in  the  arrangement  of  its  light  and  shade,  and  in  the 
harmony  of  the  " — 

"  It's  too  late,  I  tell  you,  husband.  The  book  is  all 
but  done.  Besides,  one  who  would  write  a  biography 
after  the  fashion  of  a  picture  would  probably,  even  with- 
out attributing  a  single  virtue  that  was  not  present,  or 
suppressing  a  single  fault  that  was,  yet  produce  a  false 
book.  The  principle  I  have  followed  has  been  to  try 
from  the  first  to  put  as  much  value,  that  is,  as  much 
truth,  as  I  could,  into  my  story.  Perhaps,  instead  of 
those  maxims  of  my  father's  for  tlie  education  of  chil- 
dren, you  would  have  preferred  such  specimens  of  your 
own  children's  sermons  as  you  made  me  read  to  you  for 
the  twentieth  time  yesterday  ?  " 

Instead  of  smiling  with  his  own  quiet  kind  smile,  as 
he  worked  on  at  his  picture  of  St.  Atlianasius  with  "no 
friend  but  God  and  Death,"  he  burst  into  a  merry  laugh, 
and  said,  — 

"  A  capital  idea  !  If  you  give  those,  word  for  word,  I 
shall  yield  the  precepts." 

"  Are  3^ou  out  of  your  five  wits,  husband  ? "  I  ex- 
claimed. "  Would  you  have  everj'body  take  me  for  the 
latest  incarnation  of  the  oldest  insanity  in  the  world, — 
that  of  maternity  ?  But  I  am  really  an  idiot,  for  you 
could  never  have  meant  it !  " 

"  I  do  most  soberly  and  distinctly  mean  it.  They 
would  amuse  your  readers  very  much,  and,  without 
offending  those  who  may  prefer  your  father's  maxims  to 
your  children's  sermons,  would  incline  those  who  might 
otherwise  vote  the  former  a  bore,  to  regard  them  with 
the  clemency  resulting  from  amusement." 


356  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"But  I  desire  no  such  exercise  of  clemency.  The 
precepts  are  admirable ;  and  those  need  not  take  them 
who  do  not  like  them." 

"  So  the  others  can  skip  the  sermons  ;  but  I  am  sure 
they  will  give  a  few  mothers,  at  least,  a  little  amusement. 
Tliey  will  prove  besides,  tliat  you  follow  your  own  rule 
of  putting  a  very  small  quantity  of  sage  into  the  stuffing 
of  your  goslings  ;  as  also  that  you  have  succeeded  in 
making  them  capable  of  manifesting  what  nonsense  is 
indigenous  in  them.  I  think  them  very  funny;  that 
may  be  paternal  prejudice  :  yoit  tliink  them  very  silly  as 
well ;  that  may  be  maternal  solicitude.  I  suspect,  that, 
the  more  of  a  philosopher  any  one  of  your  readers  is,  the 
more  suggestive  will  he  find  these  genuine  utterances  of 
an  age  at  w^iich  the  means  of  expression  so  much  exceed 
the  matter  to  be  expressed." 

The  idea  began  to  look  not  altogether  so  absurd  as  at 
first ;  and  a  little  more  argument  sufficed  to  make  me 
resolve  to  put  the  absurdities  themselves  to  the  test  of 
passing  leisurely  through  my  brain  while  I  copied  them 
out,  possiljly  for  the  press. 

The  result  is,  that  I  am  going  to  risk  printing  them, 
determined,  should  I  find  afterwards  that  I  have  made  a 
blunder,  to  throw  the  whole  blame  upon  my  husband. 

What  still  makes  me  shrink  the  most  is  the  recollec- 
tion of  how  often  I  have  condemned,  as  too  silly  to  re- 
peat, things  which  reporting  mothers  evidently  regarded 
as  proofs  of  a  stupendous  intellect.  But  the  folly  of 
these  constitutes  the  chief  part  of  their  merit ;  and  I  do 
not  see  how  I  can  be  mistaken  for  supposing  them  clever, 
except  it  be  in  regard  of  a  glimmer  of  pui-pose  now  and 
then,  and  the  occasional  manifestation  of  the  cunning  of 
the  stump  orator,  with  his  subterfuges  to  conceal  his 
embarrassment  when  he  finds  his  oil  failing  him,  and  his 
lamp  burning  low. 


YX^   (Si  THR         -¥^^ 


^ 


CHAPTEE     XL. 

CHILD   NONSENSE. 

One  word  of  introductory  explanation. 

During  my  husband's  illness,  Marion  came  often,  but, 
until  he  began  to  recover,  would  generally  spend  with 
the  children  the  whole  of  the  time  she  had  to  spare,  not 
even  permitting  me  to  know  that  she  was  in  the  house. 
It  was  a  great  thing  for  them ;  for,  although  they  were 
well  enough  cared  for,  they  were  necessarily  left  to  them- 
selves a  good  deal  more  than  hitherto.  Hence,  perhaps, 
it  came  that  they  betook  tliemselves  to  an  amusement 
not  uncommon  with  children,  of  which  I  had  as  yet  seen 
nothing  amongst  them. 

One  evening,  when  my  husband  had  made  a  little  prog- 
ress towards  recovery,  Marion  came  to  sit  with  me  in 
his  room  for  an  hour. 

"  I've  brought  you  something  I  want  to  read  to  you," 
she  said,  "  if  you  think  Mr.  Percivale  can  bear  it." 

I  told  her  1  believed  he  could,  and  she  proceeded  to 
explain  what  it  was. 

"  One  morning,  when  I  went  into  the  nursery,  I  found 
the  children  playing  at  church,  or  rather  at  preaching; 
for,  except  a  few  minutes  of  singing,  the  preaching  occu- 
pied the  whole  time.  There  were  two  clergymen,  Ernest 
and  Charles,  alternately  incumbent  and  curate.  The 
chief  duty  of  the  curate  for  the  time  being  was  to  lend 
his  aid  to  the  rescue  of  his  incumbent  from  any  difficulty 
in  which  the  extemporaneous  character  of  his  discourse 
might  land  him." 

I  interrupt  Marion  to  mention  that  the  respective 
nges  of  Ernest  and  Charles  were  then  eight  and  six. 

"  The  pulpit,"  she  continued,  "  was  on  the  top  of  tho 

.S57 


358  THE    Vf CAR'S  DA UG [ITER. 

cupboard  under  the  cuckoo-clock,  and  consisted  of  a 
chair  and  a  cushion.  There  were  prayer-books  in  abun- 
dance; of  which  neither  of  tliem,  I  am  happy  to  say,  made 
other  til  an  a  pretended  use  for  reference.  Charles,  indeed. 
who  was  preaching  when*I  entered,  ca7i^t  read  ;  but  both 
have  far  too  much  reverence  to  use  sacred  words  in  their 
games,  as  the  sermons  themselves  will  instance.  I  took 
down  almost  every  word  they  said,  frequent  embarrass- 
ments and  interruptions  enabling  me  to  do  so.  Ernest 
was  acting  as  clerk,  and  occasionally  prompted  the 
speaker  when  his  eloquence  failed  him,  or  reproved 
members  of  the  congregation,  which  consisted  of  the 
two  nurses  and  the  other  children,  who  were  inattentive. 
Charles  spoke  with  a  good  deal  of  unction,  and  had  quite 
a  professional  air  when  he  looked  down  on  the  big  open 
book,  referred  to  one  or  other  of  the  smaller  ones  at  his 
side,  or  directed  looks  of  reprehension  at  this  or  that 
hearer.  You  would  have  thought  he  had  cultivated  the 
imitation  of  popular  preachers,  whereas  he  tells  me  he 
has  been  to  church  only  three  times.  I  am  sorry  I  can- 
not give  the  opening  remarks,  for  I  lost  them  by  being 
late ;  but  what  I  did  hear  was  this." 

She  then  read  from  her  paper  as  follows,  and  lent  it 
me  afterwards.     I  merely  copy  it. 

"Once"  (Charles  ivas  proceeding  ivhen  Marion 
entered),  "there  lived  an  aged  man,  and  another  who 
was  a  very  aged  man ;  and  the  very  aged  man  was 
going  to  die,  and  every  one  but  the  aged  man  thought 
the  other,  the  very  aged  man,  wouldn't  die.  I  do  this 
to  explain  it  to  you.  He,  the  man  who  was  really 
going  to  die,  was  —  I  will  look  in  the  dictionary" 
{He  looks  in  the  book,  and  gives  out  loifh  tnucli  confi- 
dence), "  was  two  thousand  and  eighty-eight  j-ears  old. 
Well,  the  other  man  was  —  well,  then,  the  other  man  'at 
knew  he  was  going  to  die,  was  about  four  thousand  and 
two;  not  nearly  so  old,  you  see."  (Here  Charles  wJds- 
pers  with  Ernest,  and  then  announces  very  loud),  — 
This  is  out  of  St.  James.  The  very  aged  man  had  a 
wife  and  no  children;  and  the  other  had  no  wife, 'but 
a  great  many  children.     The  fact  was  —  this  was  how  it 


TEE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  359 

?vas  —  the  wife  died,  and  so  he  had  the  children.  Well, 
the  man  I  spoke  of  first,  well,  he  died  in  the  middle 
of  the  night "  {A  look  as  much  as  to  say,  '■'■  There ! 
what  do  you  think  of  that?'');  "an'  nobody  but  the 
aged  man  knew  he  was  going  to  die.  Well,  in  the 
morning,  when  his  wife  got  up,  she  spoke  to  him,  and 
he  was  dead  !  "  {A  2)ause.)  "  Perfectly,  sure  enough 
—  dead  / '^  (Then,  ivith  a  change  of  voice  and  man- 
ner-), "He  wasn't  reallj^  dead,  because  you  know" 
(cihrujAly  and  nervously)  —  "  Shut  the  door  !  —  you 
know  where  he  went,  because  in  the  morning  nest  day" 
(He  pauses  and  looks  round.  Ernest,  out  of  a  hook, 
prompts  —  "The  angels  take  him  away"),  "came  the 
angels  to  take  him  away,  up  to  where  you  know."  (^All 
solemn.  He  resumes  quickly,  ivith  a  change  of  man- 
ner), "They,  all  the  rest,  died  of  grief  Now,  you 
must  expect,  as  they  all  died  of  grief,  that  lots  of  angels 
must  have  come  to  take  them  away.  Freddy  icill  go 
when  the  sermon  isn't  over !     That  is  such  a  bother  !  " 

At  this  point  Marion  paused  in  her  reading,  and 
resumed  the  narrative  form. 

"Freddy,  however,  was  too  much  for  them;  so  Ernest 
betook  himself  to  the  organ,  which  was  a  chest  of 
drawers,  the  drawers  doing  duty  as  stops,  while  Freddy 
went  up  to  the  pulpit  to  say  '  Good-by,'  and  shake  hands, 
for  which  he  was  mildly  reproved  by  both  his  brothers." 

My  husband  and  I  were  so  much  amused,  that  Marion 
said  she  had  another  sermon,  also  preached  by  Charles, 
on  the  same  day,  after  a  short  interval ;  and  at  our 
request  she  read  it.     Here  it  is. 

"  Once  upon  a  time  —  a  long  while  ago,  in  a  little  — 
Ready  now?  —  Well,  there  lived  in  a  rather  big  house, 
with  quite  clean  windows :  it  was  in  winter,  so  nobody 
noticed  them,  but  they  were  quite  ivhite,  they  were  so 
clean  There  lived  some  angels  in  the  house  :  it  was 
in  the  air,  nobody  knew  why,  but  it  did.  No  :  I  don't 
think  it  did  —  I  dunuo,  but  there  lived  in  it  lots  of  chil- 
dren—  two  hundred  and  thirty-two  —  and  they  —  Oh! 
I'm  gettin'  distracted !  It  is  too  bad ! "  (Quiet  is 
restored.)    "  Their  mother  and  fiither  had  died,  but  they 


360  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

were  very  rich.  Now,  you  see  wliat  a  heap  of  children,  — ■ 
two  hundred  and  thirty-two  !  and  yet  it  seemed  like  on(, 
to  them,  they  were  so  rich,  Tliat  was  it !  it  seemed  like 
one  to  tiiem  because  they  were  so  rich.  jSTow,  the  chil- 
dren knew  what  to  get,  and  I'll  explain  to  you  now  xuhy 
they  knew ;  and  this  is  how  they  knew.  The  angels 
came  down  on  the  earth,  and  told  them  their  mother 
had  sent  messages  to  them;  and  their  mother  and  father 

—  i)o/i'i  talk!  I'm  gettin' extracted  !  "  (Puta  his  hand 
to  his  head  in  a  frenzied  manner.)  "Now,  my  brother" 
(This  severely  to  a  still  inattentive  member),  '''  I'll  tell 
you  what  the  angels  told  them  —  what  to  get.     What 

—  liow  —  now  I  will  tell  you  how,  — yes,  hoiu  they  knew 
what  they  were  to  eat.  Well,  the  fact  was,  that  — 
Freddy's  just  towards  my  face,  and  he's  laughing  !  I'm 
going  to  explain.  The  mother  and  father  had  the  wings 
on,  and  so,  of  course — Ernest,  I  want  you!"  {They 
tchisper.)  —  '"'they  were  he  and  she  angels,  and  they 
told  them  what  to  have.  Well,  one  thing  was  —  shall  I 
tell  3^ou  what  it  was  ?  Look  at  two  hundred  and  two 
in  another  book  —  one  thing  was  a  leg  of  mutton.  Of 
course,  as  the  mother  and  father  were  angels,  they  had 
to  fly  up  again.  Now  I'm  going  to  explain  how  they 
got  it  done.  They  had  four  servants  and  one  cook,  so 
that  would  be  five.  Well,  this  cook  did  them.  The 
eldest  girl  was  sixteen,  and  her  name  was  Snowdrop, 
because  she  had  snowy  arms  and  cheeks,  and  was  a  very 
nice  girl.  The  eldest  boy  was  seventeen,  and  his  name 
was  John.     He  always  told  the  cook  what  they'd  have 

—  no,  the  girl  did  that.  And  the  boy  was  now  grown 
up.  So  they  would  be  mother  and  father.  {Signs  of 
dissent  among  the  audience.)  ''  Of  course,  when  they 
were  so  old,  they  would  be  mother  and  father,  and  mas- 
ter of  the  servants.  And  tlie}'-  were  very  happy,  hut  — 
tliey  didn't  quite  like  it.  And  —  and  "  —  {with  a  great 
burst)  ''you  wouldn't  like  it  if  your  mother  were  to  die! 
And  I'll  end  it  next  Sunday.      Let  us  sing." 

''The  congregation  then  sung  'Curly  Locks,'"  said 
Marion,  "  and  dispersed  ;  Ernest  complaining  that 
Charley  gave  them  such  large  qualities  of  numbers,  and 


THE   n CAR'S  DAUGHTER.  361 

there  weren't  so  many  in  the  whole  of  his  book.  After 
a  brief  interval  the  sermon  was  resumed." 

"  Text  is  N"o.  66.  I've  a  good  congregation  !  I  got 
to  where  the  children  did  not  like  it  without  their 
mother  and  father.  Well,  you  must  remember  this  was 
a  long  while  ago,  so  what  I'm  going  to  speak  about 
could  be  possible.  Well,  their  house  was  on  the  top 
of  a  high  and  steep  hill ;  and  at  the  bottom,  a  little 
from  the  hill,  was  a  knight's  house.  There  were  three 
knights  living  in  it.  Next  to  it  was  stables  with  three 
horses  in  it.  Sometimes  they  went  up  to  this  house, 
and  wondered  what  was  in  it.  The}'-  never  knew,  but 
saw  the  angels  come.  The  knights  were  out  all  day, 
and  only  came  home  for  meals.  And  they  wondered 
what  071  earth  the  angels  were  doin',  goiu'  in  the 
house.  They  found  out  ivhat  —  what,  and  the  question 
was  —  I'll  explain  what  it  was.  Ernest,  come  here." 
(^Ernest  remarks  to  the  audience,  "  I'm  curate,"  and  to 
Charles,  "  Well,  but,  Charles,  you're  going  to  explain, 
you  know  ;  "  and  Charles  resumes.)  '•'  The  fact  was,  that 
this  was  —  if  you'd  like  to  explain  it  more  to  yourselves, 
you'd  better  look  in  j'our  books,  No.  1828.  Before,  the 
angels  didn't  speak  loud,  so  the  knights  couldn't  hear; 
noiv  they  spoke  louder,  so  that  the  knights  could  visit 
them,  'cause  they  knew  tlieir  names.  They  hadn't  many 
visitors,  but  they  had  the  knights  in  thei-e,  and  that's 
all." 

I  am  stil-l  very  much  afraid  that  all  this  nonsense  will 
hardly  be  interesting,  even  to  parents.  But  I  may  as 
well  suifer  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb  ;  and,  as  I  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  hearing  two  such  sermons  myself  not  long 
after,  I  shall  give  them,  trusting  they  will  occupy  far 
less  space  in  print  than  they  do  in  my  foolish  heart. 

It  was  Ernest  who  was  in  the  pul]3it  and  just  com- 
mencing his  discourse  wlien  I  entered  the  nursery,  and 
sat  down  with  the  congregation.  Sheltered  by  a  clothes- 
horse,  apparently  set  up  for  a  screen,  I  took  out  my 
pencil,  and  reported  on  a  fly-leaf  of  the  book  I  had  been 
reading :  — 

"My  brother  wa?  goin'  to  preach  about  the  wicked:  I 

31 


362  THE  VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

will  preach  about  the  good.  Twenty-sixth  day.  In  the 
time  of  Elizabeth  there  was  a  very  old  house.  It  was 
so  old  that  it  was  pulled  down,  and  a  quite  new  one  was 
built  instead.  Some  peo]3le  who  lived  in  it  did  not  like 
it  so  much  now  as  they  did  when  it  was  old.  I  take 
their  part,  you  know,  and  think  they  were  quite  right 
in  preferring  the  old  one  to  the  ugly,  bare,  new  one. 
They  left  it  —  sold  it  —  and  got  into  another  old  house 
instead." 

Here,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  his  curate  interjected  the 
scornful  remark,  — 

"  He's  not  lookin'  in  the  book  a  bit !  " 

But  the  preacher  went  on,  without  heeding  the  attack 
on  his  orthodoxy. 

"This  other  old  house  was  still  more  uncomfortable: 
it  was  very  draughty ;  the  gutters  were  always  leaking ; 
and  they  wished  themselves  back  in  the  new  house.  So, 
you  see,  if  you  wish  for  a  better  thing,  you  don't  get  it 
so  good  after  all." 

"  Ernest,  that  is  about  the  bad,  after  all !  "  cried 
Charles. 

"  Well,  it's  silly,''^  remarked  Freddy  severely. 

"But  I  wrote  it  myself,"  pleaded  the  preacher  from 
the  pulpit;  and,  in  consideration  of  the  fact,  he  was  al- 
lowed to  go  on. 

"  I  was  reading  about  them  being  always  uncomfort- 
able. At  last  they  decided  to  go  back  to  their  own  house, 
which  they  had  sold.  They  had  to  pay  so  much  to  get 
it  back,  that  they  had  hardly  any  money  left ;  and  then 
they  got  so  unhappy,  and  the  husband  whipped  his  wife, 
and  took  to  drinking.  That's  a  lesson."  {Here  the 
f  readier'' s  voice  became  very  plaintive),  "  that's  a 
lesson  to  show  you  shouldn't  try  to  get  the  better  thing, 
for  it  turns  out  worse,  and  then  j'ou  get  sadder,  and  every 
thing." 

He  paused,  evidently  too  mournful  to  proceed.  Freddy 
again  remarked  that  it  was  silly  ;  but  Charles  interposed 
a  word  for  the  preacher. 

"  It's  a  good  lesson,  I  think.     A  good  lesson,  I  say," 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  363 

he  repeated,  as  if  he  would  not  be  supposed  to  consider 
it  much  of  a  sermon. 

But  here  the  preacher  recovered  himself  and  summed 
up. 

"  See  how  it  comes :  wanting  to  get  every  thing,  you 
come  to  the  bad  and  drinking.  And  I  think  I'll  leave 
off  here.     Let  us  sing." 

The  song  was  "  Little  Robin  Redbreast ;"  during  which 
Charles  remarked  to  Freddy,  apparently  by  way  of  press- 
ing home  the  lesson  upon  his  younger  brother,  — 

"  Fancy  !  Hoggin'  his  wife  !  " 

Then  he  got  into  the  pulpit  himself,  and  commenced 
an  oration. 

"Chapter  eighty-eight.  The  wicked.  —  Well,  the 
time  wlien  the  story  was,  was  about  Herod.  There  were 
some  wicked  people  wanderin'  about  there,  and  they 
—  not  killed  them,  you  know,  but  —  went  to  the  judge. 
We  shall  see  wliat  they  did  to  them.  I  tell  you  this  to 
make  j'-ou  understand.  Now  the  story  begins  —  but  I 
must  think  a  little.  Ernest,  let's  sing  '  Since  first  I 
saw  your  face.' 

"  When  tlie  wicked  man  was  taken  then  to  the  ♦good 
judge  —  there  were  some  good  people  :  when  I  said  I 
was  going  to  preach  about  the  wicked,  I  did  not  mean 
that  there  were  no  good,  only  a  good  lot  of  wicked. 
There  were  pleacemans  about  here,  and  they  put  him  in 
prison  for  a  few  days,  and  then  the  judge  could  see 
about  what  he  is  to  do  with  him.  At  the  end  of  the 
few  days,  the  judge  asked  him  if  he  would  stay  in  prison 
for  life  or  be  hanged." 

Here  arose  some  inquii'ies  among  the  congregation  as 
to  what  the  wicked,  of  whom  the  prisoner  was  one,  had 
done  that  was  wrong;  to  whicli  Cliarles  replied, — 

"  Oh !  they  murdered  and  killed ;  tiiey  stealed,  and 
they  were  very  wicked  altogether.  Well,"  he  went  on, 
resuming  his  discourse,  "  the  morning  came,  and  the 
judge  said,  '  Get  the  ropes  and  my  throne,  and  order 
the  people  7iot  to  come  to  see  the  hangin'.'  For  the 
man  was  decided  to  be  hanged.  jSTow,  the  people  tvould 
come.     They  were  the  wicked,  and  they  would  persist 


3G4  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

in  comin'.     They  were  tlie  wiclved  ;  and,  if  that  was  the 
fact,  the  judge  must  do  something  to  them. 

"  Chapter  eiglity-nine.  The  hanglri'.  —  We'll  have 
some  singin'  while  I  think." 

"  Yankee  Doodle  "  was  accordingly  sung  with  much 
enthusiasm  and  solemnity.     Then  Charles  resumed. 

"  Well,  they  had  to  put  the  other  people,  who  per- 
sisted in  coming,  in  prison,  till  tlie  man  who  murdered 
people  was  hanged.     I  think  my  brother  will  go  on." 

He  descended,  and  gave  place  to  Ernest,  who  began 
with  vigor. 

"  We  were  reading  about  Herod,  weren't  we  ?  Then 
the  wicked  people  would  come,  and  had  to  be  put  to 
death.  Thej-  were  on  the  man's  side  ;  and  they  all  called 
out  that  he  hadn't  had  his  wish  before  he  died,  as  they 
did  in  those  days.  So  of  course  he  wished  for  his  life, 
and  of  course  the  judge  wouldn't  let  him  have  that' 
wish  ;  and  so  he  wislied  to  speak  to  his  friends,  and  they 
let  him.  And  the  nasty  wicked  people  took  liiui  away, 
and  he  was  never  seen  in  that  country  anj^  more.  And 
that's  enough  to-day,  I  think.  Let  us  sing  '  Lord  Lovel 
he  stood  at  his  castle-gate,  a  combing  his  milk-white 
steed.' " 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  mournful  ballad,  the  congre- 
gation was  allowed  to  disperse.  But,  before  the}'-  had 
gone  far,  they  were  recalled  by  the  offer  of  a  more  secu- 
lar entertainment  from  Charles,  who  re-ascended  the 
pulpit,  and  delivered  himself  as  follows  :  — 

"  Well,  the  pla}'  is  called  —  not  a  proverb  or  a  charade 
it  isn't  —  it's  a  play  called  '  The  Birds  and  the  Babies.' 
Well ! 

"  Once  there  was  a  little  cottage,  and  lots  of  little  ba- 
bii^s  in  it.  Nobody  knew  who  the  babies  were.  They 
were  so  happy !  Now,  I  can't  explain  it  to  you  how 
they  came  together:  they  had  no  father  and  mother,  but 
they  were  brotliers  and  sisters.  Tliey  never  grew,  and 
they  didn't  like  it.  Now,  you  wouldu't  like  not  to  grow, 
would  you  ?  They  had  a  little  garden,  and  saw  a  great 
many  birds  in  the  trees.  They  ivere  happy,  but  didn't 
feel  happy  —  that's  a  funny  thing  now  !     The  wicked 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  365 

fairies  made  them  unhappy,  and  the  good  fairies  made 
them  happy;  they  gave  them  lots  of  toys.  But  then, 
how  they  got  their  living! 

"Chapter  second,  called  '  The  Babies  at  Play.'  —  The 
fairies  told  them  what  to  get  —  that  was  it  !  —  and  so 
they  got  their  living  very  nicely.  And  now  I  must  explain 
wliat  they  played  with.  First  was  a  house.  A  house. 
Another,  dolls.  They  were  very  happy,  and  felt  as  ii 
they  had  a  mother  and  father;  but  they  hadn't,  and 
couldii't  make  it  out.      CouldnH  —  make  —  it  —  out  ! 

"  They  had  little  pumps  and  trees.  Then  they  had 
babies'  rattles.  Babies^  rattles.  —  Oh  !  I've  said  hardly 
any  thing  about  the  birds,  have  I  ?  an'  it's  called  '  The 
Birds  and  the  Babies  !  '  They  had  lots  of  little  pretty 
robins  and  canaries  hanging  round  the  ceiling,  and  — 
shall  I  say  ?  "  — 

Every  one  listened  expectant  during  the  pause  that 
followed. 

"  —  And  —  lived  —  happy  —  ever  —  after.^'' 

The  puzzle  in  it  all  is  chiefly  what  my  husband  hinted 
at,  —  why  and  how  both  the  desire  and  the  means  of 
utterance  should  so  long  precede  the  possession  of  any 
thing  ripe  for  utterance.  I  suspect  the  answer  must  lie 
pretty  deep  in  some  metaphysical  gulf  or  other. 

At  the  same  time,  the  struggle  to  speak  where  there 
is  so  little  to  utter  can  hardly  fail  to  suggest  the  thought 
of  some  efforts  of  a  more  pretentious  and  imposing 
character. 

But  more  than  enough  1 

SI* 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

"double,  double,  toil  and  trouble." 

I  HAD  for  a  day  or  two  fancied  that  Marion  was  look- 
ing less  bright  tlian  usual,  as  if  some  little  shadow  had 
follen  upon  the  morning  of  her  life.  I  say  morning,  be- 
cause, although  Marion  must  now  have  been  seven  or 
eight  and  twenty,  her  life  had  always  seemed  to  me 
lighted  by  a  cool,  clear,  dewy  morning  sun,  over  whose 
face  it  now  seemed  as  if  some  film  of  noonday  cloud  had 
begun  to  gather.  Unwilling  at  once  to  assert  the  ulti- 
mate privilege  of  friendship,  I  asked  her  if  any  thing 
was  amiss  with  her  friends.  She  answered  that  all  was 
going  on  well,  at  least  so  far  that  she  had  no  special  anx- 
iety about  any  of  them.  Encouraged  by  a  half-conscious 
and  more  than  half-sad  smile,  I  ventured  a  little  farther. 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  something  troubling  3^ou,"  I 
said. 

*' There  is,"  she  replied,  "  something  troubling  me  a 
good  deal ;  but  I  hope  it  will  pass  away  soon." 

Tlie  sigh  which  followed,  however,  was  deep  thougli 
gentle,  and  seemed  to  indicate  a  fear  that  the  trouble 
might  not  pass  away  so  very  soon. 

"  I  am  not  to  ask  you  any  questions,  I  suppose,"  I  ro 
turned. 

"  Better  not  at  present,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  not 
quite  sure  that  "  — 

She  paused  several  moments  before  finishing  her  sen- 
tence, then  added,  — 

"  —  that  I  am  at  liberty  to  tell  you  about  it." 

"  Then  don't  say  another  V70rd,"  I  rejoined.  "  Only 
when  I  can  be  of  service  to  you,  you  will  let  me,  won't 
you?" 

366 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  367 

The  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  may  be  some  fault  of  mine,"  she  said. 
*'  I  don't  know.  I  can't  tell.  I  don't  understand  such 
things." 

She  sighed  again,  and  held  her  peace. 

It  was  enigmatical  enough.  One  thing  only  was  clear, 
that  at  present  I  was  not  wanted.  So  I,  too,  held  my 
peace,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Marion  went,  with  a  more 
affectionate  leave-taking  than  usual,  for  her  friendship 
was  far  less  demonstrative  than  that  of  most  women. 

I  pondered,  but  it  was  not  of  much  use.  Of  course 
the  first  thing  that  suggested  itself  was.  Could  my  angel 
be  in  love?  and  with  some  mortal  mere?  The  very 
idea  was  a  shock,  simply  from  its  strangeness.  Of 
course,  being  a  woman,  she  might  be  in  love  ;  but  the 
two  ideas,  Marion  and  love,  refused  to  coalesce.  And 
again,  was  it  likely  that  such  as  she,  her  mind  occupied 
with  so  many  other  absorbing  interests,  would  fall  in 
love  unprovoked,  unsolicited  ?  That,  indeed,  was  not 
likely.  Then  if,  solicited,  she  but  returned  love  for  love, 
why  was  she  sad  ?  The  new  experience  might,  it  is 
true,  cause  such  commotion  in  a  mind  like  hers  as  to 
trouble  her  greatly.  She  would  not  know  what  to  do 
with  it,  nor  where  to  accommodate  her  new  inmate  so  as 
to  keep  him  from  meddling  with  affairs  he  had  no  right 
to  meddle  with  :  it  was  easy  enough  to  fancy  him  trouble- 
some in  a  house  like  hers.  But  surely  of  all  women  she 
might  be  able  to  meet  her  own  liabilities.  And  if  this 
were  all,  why  should  she  have  said  she  hoped  it  would 
soon  pass  ?  That  might,  however,  mean  only  that  she 
hoped  soon  to  get  her  guest  brought  amenable  to  her 
existing  household  economy. 

There  was  yet  a  conjecture,  however,  which  seemed  to 
suit  the  case  better.  If  Marion  knew  little  of  what  is 
commonly  called  love,  that  is,  "  the  attraction  of  correla- 
tive unlikeness,"  as  I  once  heard  it  defined  by  a  meta- 
physical friend  of  my  father's,  there  was  no  one  who 
knew  more  of  the  tenderness  of  compassion  than  she; 
and  was  it  not  possible  some  one  might  be  wanting  to 
marry  her  to  whom  she  could  not  give  herself  away  ? 


368  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

This  conjecture  was  at  least  ample  enough  to  cover  the 
facts  in  my  possession  —  which  were  scanty  indeed,  in 
number  hardly  dual.  But  who  was  there  to  dare  offer 
love  to  my  saint?  Roger?  Pooh!  pooh  !  Mr.  Black- 
stone  ?  Ah  !  I  had  seen  him  once  lately  looking  at  her 
with  an  expression  of  more  than  ordinary  admiration.  But 
what  man  that  knew  any  tiling  of  her  could  help  looking 
at  her  with  such  an  admiration  ?  If  it  was  Mr.  Black- 
stone —  why,  he  might  dare  —  yes,  why  should  he  not 
dare  to  love  her?  —  especially  if  he  couldn't  help  it,  as, 
of  course,  he  couldn't.  Was  he  not  one  whose  lo\e, 
simply  because  he  was  a  tnce  man  from  the  heart  to  the 
hands,  would  honor  any  woman,  even  Saint  Clare  —  as 
she  must  be  when  the  church  Jias  learned  to  do  its  busi- 
ness without  the  pope?  Only  he  mustn't  blame  me,  if, 
after  all,  I  should  think  he  offered  less  than  he  sought; 
or  her,  if,  entertaining  no  question  of  worth  whatever, 
she  should  yet  refuse  to  listen  to  him  as,  truly,  there 
was  more  than  a  possibility  she  might. 

If  it  were  Mr.  Blackstone,  certainly  I  knew  no  man 
who  could  understand  her  better,  or  whose  modes  of 
thinking  and  working  would  more  thoroughly  fall  in  with 
her  own.  True,  he  was  peculiar ;  that  is,  he  had  kept 
the  angles  of  his  individuality,  for  all  the  grinding  of 
the  social  mill ;  his  manners  were  too  abrupt,  and  di'ove  at 
the  heart  of  things  too  directly,  seldom  suggesting  a  by- 
youv-leave  to  those  whose  prejudices  he  overturned  :  true, 
also,  that  his  person,  though  dignified,  was  somewhat 
ungainly,  —  with  an  ungainliness,  however,  which  I 
could  well  imagine  a  wife  learning  absolutely  to  love ; 
but,  on  the  whole,  the  thing  was  reasonable.  Only, 
what  would  become  of  her  friends?  There,  I  could 
j;ardly  doubt,  there  lay  the  difficulty !  Ay,  there  was 
the  rub ! 

Let  no  one  think,  when  I  say  we  went  to  Mr.  Jilack- 
stone's  church  the  next  Sunday,  that  it  had  any  thing 
tu  do  with  these  speculations.  We  often  went  oq  the 
first  Sunday  of  the  month. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Blackstone  ?"  said  my  has- 
band  as  we  came  home. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  S69 

"What  do  i/ou  think  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  "  I  re- 
turned. 

"  I  don't  know.     He  wasn't  himself." 

"  I  thought  he  was  more  than  himself,"  I  rejoined ; 
"  for  I  never  heard  even  him  read  the  litany  with  such 
fervor." 

"In  some  of  the  petitions,"  said  Percivale,  "it  amounted 
to  a  suppressed  agony  of  supplication.  I  am  certain 
he  is  in  trouble." 

I  told  him  my  suspicions. 

"Likely  —  very  likely,"  he  answered,  and  became 
thoughtful. 

"  But  you  don't  think  she  refused  him?"  he  said  at 
length. 

"  If  he  ever  asked  her,"  I  returned,  "  I  fear  she  did  ; 
for  she  is  plainly  in  trouble  too." 

"  She'll  never  stick  to  it,"  he  said. 

"  You  mustn't  judge  Marion  by  ordinary  standards," 
I  replied.  "You  must  remember  she  has  not  only  found 
her  vocation,  but  for  many  years  proved  it.  I  never 
knew  her  turned  aside  from  what  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  to.  I  can  hardly  imagine  her  forsaking  her  friends 
to  keep  house  for  any  man,  even  if  she  loved  him  with 
all  her  heart.  She  is  dedicated  as  irrevocably  as  any  nun, 
and  will,  with  St.  Paul,  cling  to  the  right  of  self-denial." 

"  Yet  what  great  difficulty  would  there  be  in  combin- 
ing the  two  sets  of  duties,  especially  with  such  a  man  as 
Blackstone  ?  Of  all  the  men  I  know,  he  comes  the 
nearest  to  her  in  his  devotion  to  the  well-being  of  human- 
ity, especially  of  the  poor.  Did  you  ever  know  a  man 
with  such  a  plentiful  lack  of  condescension  ?  His  feel- 
ing of  human  equality  amounts  almost  to  a  fault;  for 
surely  he  ought  sometimes  to  sjjeak  as  knowing  better 
than  they  to  whom  he  speaks.  He  forgets  that  too  many 
will  but  use  his  humility  for  mortar  to  build  withal  the 
Shinar-tower  of  their  own  superiority." 

"That  may  be  ;  yet  it  remains  impossible  for  him  to 
assume  any  thing.  He  is  the  same  all  through,  and  — 
I  had  almost  said  —  worthy  of  Saint  Clare.  Well,  they 
must  settle  it  for  themselves.     We  can  do  nothing." 


370  TUE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  We  can  do  nothing,"  lie  assented ;  and,  altliough  wo 
repeatedly  reverted  to  the  subject  on  the  long  way  home, 
we  carried  no  conclusions  to  a  different  result. 

Towards  evening  of  the  same  Sunday,  Roger  came  to 
accompany  us,  as  I  thought,  to  Marion's  gathering,  but, 
as  it  turned  out,  only  to  tell  me  he  couldn't  go.  I  ex- 
pressed my  regret,  and  asked  him  why.  He  gave  me  no 
answer,  and  his  lip  trembled.  A  sudden  conviction 
seized  me.  I  laid  my  hand  on  his  arm,  but  could  only 
say,  "Dear  Roger!"  He  turned  his  head  aside,  and, 
sitting  down  on  the  sofa,  laid  his  forehead  on  his  hand. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  !  "  I  said. 

"  She  has  told  you,  then  ?  "  he  murmured. 

"'No  one  has  told  me  any  thing." 

He  was  silent.  I  sat  down  beside  him.  It  was  all  I 
could  do.     After  a  moment  he  rose,  saying,  — 

''  There's  no  good  whining  about  it,  only  she  might 
have  made  a  man  of  me.  But  she's  quite  right.  It's  a 
comfort  to  think  I'm  so  unworthy  of  her.  That's  all  the 
consolation  left  me,  but  there's  more  in  that  than  you 
would  think  till  you  try  it." 

He  attempted  to  laugh,  but  made  a  miserable  foilure 
of  it,  then  rose  and  caught  up  his  hat  to  go.  I  rose 
also. 

"  Roger,"  I  said,  "  I  can't  go,  and  leave  you  miserable. 
We'll  go  somewhere  else,  — -  anywhere  you  please,  only 
you  mustn't  leave  us." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  somewhere  else.  I  don't  know 
the  place,"  he  added,  with  a  feeble  attempt  at  his  usual 
gayety. 

"  Stop  at  home,  then,  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  It  will 
do  you  good  to  talk.  You  shall  have  your  pipe,  and  you 
shall  tell  me  just  as  much  as  you  like,  and  keep  the  rest 
to  yourself" 

If  you  want  to  get  hold  of  a  man's  deepest  confidence, 
tell  him  to  smoke  in  your  drawing-room.  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  but  there  seems  no  trouble  in  which  a  man 
can't  smoke.  One  who  scorns  extraneous  comfort  of 
every  other  sort,  will  yet,  in  the  ])rofoundest  sorrow, 
take  kindly  to  his  pipe.     This  is  more  wonderful  than 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  371 

any  thing  I  know  about  our  kind.  But  I  fear  the 
sewing-machines  will  drive  many  women  to  tobacco. 

I  ran  to  Percivale,  gave  him  a  hint  of  how  it  was,  and 
demanded  his  pipe  and  tobacco-pouch  directly,  telling 
him  he  must  content  himself  with  a  cigar. 

Thus  armed  with  the  calumet,  as  Paddy  might  say,  I 
returned  to  Roger,  who  took  it  without  a  word  of  thanks, 
and  began  to  fill  it  mechanically,  but  not  therefore  the 
less  carefully.  I  sat  down,  laid  my  hands  in  my  lap, 
and  looked  at  him  without  a  word.  When  the  pipe  was 
filled  I  rose  and  got  him  a  light,  for  which  also  he  made 
me  no  acknowledgment.  The  revenge  of  putting  it  in 
print  is  sweet.  Having  whiffed  a  good  many  whiffs  in 
silence,  he  took  at  length  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and,  as 
he  pressed  the  burning  tobacco  with  a  forefinger,  said,  — 

"  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself,  Wynnie." 

''  Not  more  than  a  gentleman  had  a  right  to  do,  I  will 
pledge  mj^self,"  I  returned. 

"  She  has  told  you,  then  ?  "  he  said  once  more,  looking 
rather  disappointed  than  annoyed. 

"No  one  has  mentioned  your  name  to  me,  Roger.  I 
only  guessed  it  from  what  Marion  said  when  I  questioned 
her  about  her  sad  looks." 

"Her  sad  looks?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  She  only  confessed  she  had  had  something  to  trouble 
her,  and  said  she  hoped  it  would  be  over  soon." 

"  I  dare  say  !  "  returned  Roger  dryly,  looking  gratified, 
however,  for  a  moment. 

My  reader  may  wonder  that  I  should  compromise 
INIarion,  even  so  far  as  to  confess  that  she  was  troubled  ; 
but  I  could  not  bear  that  Roger  should  think  she  had 
been  telling  his  story  to  me.  Every  generous  woman 
feels  that  she  owes  the  man  she  refuses  at  least  silence ; 
and  a  man  may  well  reckon  upon  that  much  favor.  Of 
all  failures,  why  should  this  be  known  to  the  world  ? 

The  relief  of  finding  she  had  not  betrayed  him  helped 
him,  I  think,  to  open  his  mind :  he  was  under  no  obliga- 
tion to  silence. 


372  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  You  see,  Wynnie,"  he  said,  with  pauses,  and  puffs 
at  his  pipe,  "I  don't  mean  I'm  a  fool  for  falling  in  love 
with  Marion.  Not  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  would 
have  argued  me  a  beast.  Being  a  man,  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  help  it,  after  what  she's  been  to  me.  But 
I  was  worse  than  a  fool  to  open  my  mouth  on  the  sub- 
ject to  an  angel  like  her.  Only  there  again,  I  couldn't, 
that  is,  I  hadn't  the  strength  to  help  it.  I  beg,  how- 
ever, you  won't  think  me  such  a  downright  idiot  as  to 
fancy  myself  worthy  of  her.  In  that  case,  I  should  have 
deserved  as  much  scorn  as  she  gave  me  kindness.  If 
you  ask  me  how  it  was,  then,  that  I  dared  to  speak  to  her 
on  the  subject,  I  can  only  answer  that  I  j'ielded  to  the 
impulse  common  to  all  kinds  of  love  to  make  itself 
known.  If  you  love  God,  you  are  not  content  witli  his 
knowing  it  even,  but  you  must  tell  him  as  if  he  didn't 
know  it.  You  may  think  from  this  cool  talk  of  mine 
that  I  am  very  philosopliical  about  it ;  but  there  are 
lulls  in  every  storm,  and  I  am  in  one  of  those  lulls,  else 
I  shouldn't  be  sitting  here  with  you." 

"  Dear  Roger  !  "  I  said,  "  I  am  very  sorry  for  your  dis- 
appointment. Somehow,  I  can't  be  sorry  you  should 
have  loved ''  — 

'■^ Have  loved!  "  he  murmured. 

^^  Should  love  Marion,  then,"  I  went  on.  ''That  can 
do  you  nothing  but  good,  and  in  itself  must  raise  you 
above  yourself  And  how  could  I  blame  you,  that,  loving 
her,  you  wanted  her  to  know  it  ?  But  come,  now,  if  you 
can  trust  me,  tell  me  all  about  it,  and  especially  what  she 
said  to  you.  I  dare  not  give  j^ou  any  hope,  for  I  am  not 
in  her  confidence  in  this  matter;  and  it  is  well  that  I 
am  not,  for  then  I  might  not  be  able  to  talk  to  you  about 
it  with  any  freedom.  To  confess  the  real  truth,  I  do  not 
see  much  likelihood,  knowing  her  as  I  do,  that  she  will 
recall  her  decision." 

"It  could  hardly  be  called  a  decision,"  said  Roger. 
"You  would  not  have  thought,  from  the  way  she  took 
it,  there  was  any  thing  to  decide  about.  No  more  there 
was;  and  I  thought  I  knew  it,  only  I  couldn't  be  quiet. 
To  think  you  know  a  thing,  and  to  know  it,  are  two  very 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  373 

different  matters,  however.  But  I  don't  repent  having 
spoken  my  mind  :  if  I  am  humbled,  I  am  not  humiliated. 
If  she  had  listened  to  me,  I  fear  I  should  have  been 
ruined  by  pride.  I  should  never  have  judged  mj^selt 
justly  after  it.  I  wasn't  humble,  though  I  thought  I  was. 
I'm  a  poor  creature,  Ethelwyn." 

''Not  too  poor  a  creature  to  be  dearly  loved,  Eoger. 
But  go  on  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  As  your  friend  and 
sister,  I  am  anxious  to  hear  the  whole." 

Notwithstanding  what  I  bad  said,  I  was  not  moved  by 
sympathetic  curiosity  alone,  but  also  by  the  vague  desire 
of  rendering  some  help  beyond  comfort.  What  he  had 
now  said,  greatly  heightened  ray  opinion  of  him,  and 
thereby,  in  my  thoughts  of  the  two,  lessened  the  dis- 
tance between  him  and  Marion.  At  all  events,  by 
hearing  the  whole,  I  should  learn  how  better  to  comfort 
him. 

And  he  did  tell  me  the  whole,  which,  along  with  what 
I  learned  afterwards  from  Marion,  I  will  set  down  as 
nearly  as  I  can,  throwing  it  into  the  form  of  direct  nar- 
ration. I  will  not  pledge  myself  for  the  accuracy  of 
every  trifling  particular  which  that  form  may  render  it 
necessary  to  introduce ;  neither,  I  am  sure,  having  thua 
explained,  will  my  reader  demand  it  of  me. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

ROGER   AND    MARION. 

During  an  all  but  sleepless  night,  Koger  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  go  and  see  Marion :  not,  certainly,  for 
the  first  time,  for  he  had  again  and  again  ventured  to 
call  upon  her;  but  hitherto  he  had  always  had  some  pre- 
text sufficient  to  veil  his  deeper  reason,  and,  happily  or 
unhappily,  sufficient  also  to  prevent  her,  in  her  more 
than  ordinary  simplicity  with  regard  to  such  matters, 
from  suspecting  one  under  it. 

She  was  at  home,  and  received  him  with  her  usual 
kindness.  Feeling  that  he  must  not  let  an  awkward  si- 
lence intervene,  lest  she  should  become  suspicious  of  his 
object,  and  thus  the  chance  be  lost  of  interesting,  and 
possibly  moving  her  before  she  saw  his  drift,  he  spoke  at 
once. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  Miss  Clare,"  he  said 
as  lightly  as  he  could. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  returned,  with  the  sweet  smile  which 
graced  her  every  approach  to  communication. 

"Did  ray  sister-in-law  ever  tell  you  what  an  idle  fel- 
low I  used  to  be  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  I  never  heard  her  say  a  word  of  you 
that  wasn't  kind." 

"  That  I  am  sure  of.  But  there  would  have  been  no 
unkindness  in  saying  that ;  for  an  idle  fellow  I  was,  and 
the  idler  because  I  was  conceited  enough  to  believe  I 
could  do  any  thing.  I  actually  thought  at  one  time 
I  could  play  the  violin.  I  actually  made  an  impertinent 
attempt  in  your  presence  one  evening,  years  and  years 
ago.     I  wonder  if  you  remember  it." 

374 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  375 

"I  do;  but  I  don't  know  why  you  should  call  it  im- 
pertinent." 

"Anyhow,  I  caught  a  look  on  your  face  that  cured  me 
of  that  conceit.     I  have  never  touched  the  creature  since, 

—  a  Cremona  too  !  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  indeed  I   am.     I   don't  remember 

—  Do   you    think   you    could    have    played    a    false 
note  ?  " 

"Nothing  more  likely." 

"  Then,  I  dare  say  I  made  an  ugly  face.  One  can't 
always  help  it,  you  know,  when  something  unexpected 
happens.     Do  forgive  me." 

"  Forgive  you,  yon  angel  !  "  cried  Roger,  but  instantly 
checked  himself,  afraid  of  reaching  his  mark  before  he 
had  gathered  sufficient  momentum  to  pierce  it.  "I 
thought  you  would  see  what  a  good  thing  it  was  for  me. 
I  wanted  to  thank  you  for  it." 

"  It's  such  a  pity  you  didn't  go  on,  though.  Progress 
is  the  real  cure  for  an  overestimate  of  ourselves.". 

"The  fact  is,  I  was  beginning  to  see  what  small 
praise  thei-e  is  in  doing  many  things  ill  and  nothing  well. 
I  wish  you  would  take  my  Cremona.  I  could  teach  you 
the  A  B  C  of  it  well  enough.  How  you  would  make  it 
talk !  That  tcould  be  something  to  live  for,  to  hear 
you  play  the  violin  !     Ladies  do,  nowadays,  you  know." 

"  I  have  no  time,  Mr.  Roger.  I  should  have  been  de- 
lighted to  be  your  pupil ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  is  out 
of  the  question." 

"Of  course  it  is.  Only  I  wish  —  well,  never  mind,  I 
only  wanted  to  tell  you  something.  I  was  leading  a  life 
then  that  wasn't  worth  leading;  for  where's  the  good  of 
being  just  what  happens,  —  one  time  full  of  riglit  feeling 
and  impulse,  and  the  next  a  prey  to  all  wrong  judgments 
and  falsehoods  ?  It  was  you  made  me  see  it.  I've  been 
trying  to  get  put  right  for  a  long  time  now.  I'm  afraid 
of  seeming  to  talk  goody,  but  you  will  know  what  I 
mean.  You  and  your  Sunday  evenings  have  waked  me 
up  to  know  what  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be.  I  aiih 
a  little  better.  I  work  hard  now.  I  used  to  work  only 
by  fits  and  starts.     Ask  Wynnie." 


376  TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"Dear  Mr.  Roger,  I  don't  need  to  ask  Wynnie  about 
an}'  thing  you  tell  me.  I  can  take  your  word  for  it  just 
as  well  as  hers.  I  am  very  glad  if  I  have  been  of  any 
use  to  you.     It  is  a  great  honor  to  me.'' 

"But  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  couldn't  be  content  without 
letting  you  know,  and  making  myself  miserable." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  I  think.  Surely  there  can 
be  no  harm  in  letting  me  know  what  makes  me  very 
happy !  How  it  should  make  you  miserable,  I  can't 
imagine." 

''  Because  I  can't  stop  there.  I'm  driven  to  say  what 
will  offend  you,  if  it  doesn't  make  you  hate  me  —  no, 
not  that;  for  you  don't  know  how  to  hate.  But  you 
must  think  me  the  most  conceited  and  presumptuous 
fellow  you  ever  knew.  I'm  not  that,  thougli ;  I'm  not 
that;  it's  not  me;  I  can't  hel^J  it;  I  can't  lielp  loving 
you  —  dreadfully  —  and  it's  such  impudence  !  To  think 
of  you  and  me  in  one  thought !  And  yet  I  can't  help 
it.     0  Miss  Clare !  don't  drive  me  away  from  you." 

He  fell  on  his  knees  as  he  spoke,  and  laid  his  head  on 
her  lap,  sobbing  like  a  child  who  had  offended  his  mother. 
He  almost  cried  again  as  he  told  me  this.  Marion 
half  started  to  her  feet  in  confusion,  almost  in  terror,  for 
she  had  never  seen  such  emotion  in  a  man ;  but  the  di- 
vine compassion  of  her  nature  conquered :  she  sat  down 
again,  took  his  head  in  her  hands,  and  began  stroking 
his  hair  as  if  she  were  indeed  a  mother  seeking  to  soothe 
and  comfort  her  troubled  child.  Slie  was  the  first 
to  speak  again,  for  Roger  could  not  command  himself. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Roger,"  she  said.  "  I  must  be  to 
blame  somehow." 

"To  blame  !"  he  cried,  lifting  up  his  head.  "  You  to 
blame  for  my  folly !  But  it's  not  folly,"  he  added  impet- 
uously :  "  it  would  be  downright  stupidity  not  to  love 
you  with  all  my  soul." 

"Hush  !  hush!"  said  Marion,  in  whose  ears  his  lan- 
guage sounded  irreverent.  "  You  couldnH  love  me  with 
all  your  soul  if  you  would.  God  only  can  be  loved  with 
all  the  power  of  the  human  soul." 

"If  I  love  him  at  all,  Marion,  it  is  you  who  have 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  377 

taught  me.  Do  not  drive  me  from  you  —  lest  —  lest  — 
I  should  cease  to  love  him,  and  fall  back  into  my  old 
dreary  ways." 

"  It's  a  poor  love  to  offer  God.  —  love  for  the  sake  of 
another,"  she  said  very  solemnly. 

"  But  if  it's  all  one  has  got  ?  " 

"  Then  it  won't  do,  Roger.  I  wish  you  loved  me  for 
God's  sake  instead.  Then  all  would  be  right.  That 
would  be  a  grand  love  for  me  to  have." 

"Don't  drive  me  from  you,  Marion,"  he  pleaded.  It 
was  all  he  could  say. 

"  I  will  not  drive  you  from  me.     Why  should  I  ?  " 

"  Then  I  may  come  and  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  Yes  :  when  you  please." 

"You  do7i''t  mean  I  may  come  as  often  as  I  like  ?" 

"Yes  —  when  I  have  time  to  see  you." 

"  Then,"  cried  Roger,  starting  to  his  feet  with  clasped 
hands,  "  —  perhaps  —  is  it  possible  ?  —  you  will  —  you 
will  let  me  love  you  ?     0  my  God  ! " 

"Roger,"  said  Marion,  pale  as  death,  and  rising  also; 
for,  alas  !  the  sunshine  of  her  kindness  had  caused  hopes 
to  blossom  whose  buds  she  had  taken  only  for  leaves,  "  I 
thoughi  you  understood  me !  You  spoke  as  if  you  un- 
derstood perfectly  that  that  could  never  be  which  I  must 
suppose  you  to  mean.  Of  course  it  cannot.  I  am  not 
my  own  to  keep  or  to  give  away.  I  belong  to  this  people, 
—  my  friends.  To  take  personal  and  private  duties  up- 
on me,  would  be  to  abandon  them ;  and  how  dare  I  ? 
You  don't  know  what  it  would  result  in,  or  you  would 
not  dream  of  it.  Were  I  to  do  such  a  thing,  I  should 
hate  and  despise  and  condemn  myself  with  utter  repro- 
bation. And  then  what  a  prize  you  would  have  got,  my 
poor  Roger ! " 

But  even  these  were  such  precious  words  to  hear  from 
her  lips  !  He  fell  again  on  his  knees  before  her  as  she 
stood,  caught  her  hands,  and,  hiding  his  face  in  them, 
poured  forth  the  following  words  in  a  torrent,  — 

"  Marion,  do  not  think  me  so  selfish  as  not  to  have 
thought  about  that.     It  should  be  only  the  better  for 
them  all.     I  can  earn  quite  enough  for  you  and  me  too, 
32* 


378  THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

and  so  you  would  have  the  more  time  to  give  to  them. 
I  should  never  have  dreamed  of  asking  you  to  leave 
them.  There  are  things  in  which  a  dog  may  help  a 
man,  doing  what  the  man  can't  do :  there  may  be  things 
in  which  a  man  might  help  an  angel." 

Deeply  moved  by  the  unselfishness  of  his  love,  JSIarion 
could  not  help  a  pressure  of  her  hands  against  the  face 
which  had  sought  refuge  within  them.  Eoger  fell  to 
kissing  them  wddly. 

But  Marion  was  a  woman ;  and  women.  I  think, 
though  I  may  be  only  judging  by  myseK  and  my 
Uusbandj  look  forward  and  round  about,  more  than 
men  do :  they  would  need  at  all  events ;  therefore 
Marion  saw  other  things.  A  man-reader  may  say,  that,  if 
she  loved  him.  she  would  not  have  thus  looked  about  her  ; 
and  tliat,  if  she  did  not  love  him,  there  was  no  occasion 
for  her  thus  to  fly  in  the  face  of  the  future.  I  can  only 
answer  that  it  is  allowed  on  all  hands  women  are  not 
amenable  to  logic  :  look  about  her  Marion  did,  and  saw, 
that,  as  a  married  woman,  she  might  be  compelled 
to  forsake  her  friends  more  or  less :  for  there  might  arise 
other  and  paramount  claims  on  her  self-devotion.  In  a 
word,  if  she  were  to  have  children,  she  would  have  no 
choice  in  respect  to  whose  welfare  should  constitute  the 
main  business  of  her  life  ;  and  it  even  became  a  question 
whether  she  would  have  a  right  to  place  them  in  circum- 
stances so  unfavorable  for  growth  and  education.  Thcre- 
fore,  to  marry  might  be  tantamount  to  forsaking  Ikt 
friends. 

But  where  was  the  need  of  any  such  mental  parley  ? 
Of  course,  she  couldn't  marry  Roger.  How  could  she 
marry  a  man  she  couldn't  look  up  to  ?  And  look  up  to 
him  she  certainly  did  not,  and  could  not. 

'•'So,  Eoger,"'  she  said,  this  last  thought  large  in  her 
mind ;  and,  as  she  spoke,  she  withdrew  her  hands,  '■  it 
mustn't  be.  It  is  out  of  the  question :  I  cant  look  up 
to  you,"  she  added,  as  simply  as  a  child. 

'•  I  should  think  not,''  he  burst  out.  "'  That  icould  be  a 
fine  thing  I  If  you  looked  up  to  a  fellow  like  me,  I 
think  it  would  almost  cure  me  of  looking  up  to  you;  and 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  379 

what  I  want  is  to  look  up  to  you  every  day  and  all  day 
long :  only  I  can  do  that  whether  you  let  me  or  not." 

"But  I  don't  choose  to  have  a  —  a  —  friend  to  whom 
I  can't  look  up." 

"  Then  I  shall  never  be  even  a  friend,"  he  returned 
sadly.  "■  But  I  would  have  tried  hard  to  be  less  unworthy 
of  you." 

At  this  precise  moment,  Marion  caught  sight  of  a  pair 
of  great  round  blue  ej^es,  wide  open  under  a  shock  of  red 
hair,  about  three  feet  from  the  floor,  staring  as  if  they 
had  not  winked  for  the  last  ten  minutes.  The  child 
looked  so  comical,  that  Marion,  reading  perhaps  in  her 
looks  the  reflex  of  her  own  position,  could  not  help 
laughing.  Roger  started  up  in  dismay,  but,  beholding 
the  apparition,  laughed  also. 

"Please,  grannie,"  said  the  urchin,  ''mother's  took 
bad,  and  want's  ye." 

"Bun  and  tell  your  mother  I  shall  be  with  her 
directlj',"  answered  Marion  ;  and  the  child  departed. 

"You  told  me  I  might  come  again,"  pleaded  Eoger. 

"  Better  not.  I  didn't  know  what  it  would  mean  to 
you  when  I  said  it." 

"  Let  it  mean  what  3'ou  meant  by  it,  only  let  me 
come." 

"But  I  see  now  it  can't  mean  that.  Xo :  I  will 
write  to  you.  At  all  events,  you  must  go  now,  for  I 
can't  stop  with  you  when  Mrs.  Foote  "  — 

"  Don't  make  me  wretched,  Marion.  If  you  can't  love 
me,  don't  kill  me.  Don't  say  I'm  not  to  come  and  see 
you.     I  will  come  on  Sundays,  anyhow." 

The  next  day  came  the  following  letter :  — 

Dear  Mr.  Boger,  —  I  am  very  sorry,  both  for  your 
sake  and  my  own,  that  I  did  not  speak  more  plainly 
yesterday.  I  was  so  distressed  for  you,  and  my  heart 
was  so  friendly  towards  you,  that  I  could  hardly  think  of 
any  thing  at  first  but  how  to  comfort  jom  ;  and  I  fear  I 
allowed  you,  after  all,  to  go  away  with  the  idea  that  what 
70U  wished  was  not  altogether  impossible.  But  indeed  it 
is.  If  even  I  loved  you  in  the  way  you  love  me,  I  should 


380  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

yet  make  every  thing  yield  to  the  duties  I  have  under- 
taken. In  listening  to  you,  I  should  be  undermining 
the  whole  of  my  past  labors;  and  the  very  idea  of  becom- 
ing less  of  a  friend  to  my  friends  is  horrible  to  me. 

But  much  as  I  esteem  you,  and  much  pleasure  as 
your  society  gives  me,  the  idea  you  brought  before  me 
yesterday  was  absolutely  startling ;  and  I  think  I  have 
only  to  remind  you,  as  I  have  just  done,  of  the  peculiar- 
ities of  my  position,  to  convince  you  that  it  could  never 
become  a  familiar  one  to  me.  All  that  friendship  can  do 
or  yield,  you  may  ever  claim  of  me;  and  I  thank  God  if 
I  have  been  of  the  smallest  service  to  you  :  but  I  should 
be  quite  unworthy  of  that  honor,  were  I  for  any  reason  to 
admit  even  the  thought  of  abandoning  the  work  which 
has  been  growing  up  around  me  for  f  >  many  years,  -nnd 
is  so  peculiarly  mine  that  it  could  be  transferred  '.o  no 
one  else.  Believe  me  yours  mor  \  truly, 

Mario-  (/j  lBu 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

A  LITTLE  MORE  ABOUT  KOGEE,  AND  ABOUT  MR.  BLACK- 

STOXE. 

After  telling  me  the  greater  part  of  what  I  have 
just  written,  Roger  handed  me  this  letter  to  read,  as  we 
sat  together  that  same  Sunday  evening. 

"  It  seems  final,  Roger  ?  "  I  said  with  an  interroga- 
tion, as  I  returned  it  to  him. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  he  replied.  "  How  could  any  hon- 
est man  urge  his  suit  after  that,  —  after  she  says  that  to 
grant  it  would  be  to  destroy  the  whole  of  her  previous 
life,  and  ruin  her  self-respect  ?  But  I'm  not  so  misera- 
ble as  you  may  think  me,  Wynnie,"  he  went  on;  "for 
don't  you  see  ?  though  I  couldn't  quite  bring  n\yself  to 
go  to-night,  I  don't  feel  cut  off  from  her.  She's  not  like- 
ly, if  I  know  her,  to  listen  to  anybody  else  so  long  as  the 
same  reasons  hold  for  which  she  wouldn't  give  me  a 
chance  of  persuading  her.  She  can't  lielp  me  loving  hei', 
and  I'm  sure  she'll  let  me  help  her  when  I've  the  luck  to 
find  a  chance.  You  may  be  sure  I  sliall  keep  a  sharp 
lookout.  If  I  can  be  her  servant,  that  will  be  some- 
thing; yes,  much.  'J'hough  she  won't  give  herself  to 
me  —  and  quite  right,  too  !  —  why  should  she  ?  —  God 
bless  her  !  —  she  can't  prevent  me  from  giving  myself  to 
her.  So  long  as  I  may  love  her,  and  see  her  as  often  as  I 
don't  doubt  I  may,  and  things  continue  as  they  are, 
I  sha'n't  be  down-hearted.  I'll  have  another  pipe,  I 
think."  Here  he  half-started,  and  hurriedly  pulled  out 
his  watch.  "  I  declare,  there's  time  yet ! "  he  cried,  and 
sprung  to  his  feet.  "  Let's  go  and  hear  what  she's  got 
to  say  to-night." 

S81 


382  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Don't  you  think  yon  had  better  not  ?  Won't  you 
put  her  out  ?  "  I  suggested. 

"  If  I  understand  her  at  all,"  he  said,  "  she  will  bo 
more  put  out  by  my  absence;  for  she  will  fear  I  am 
wretched,  caring  only  for  herself,  and  not  for  what  she 
taught  me.  You  may  come  or  stay  —  Tm  off.  You've 
done  me  so  much  good,  Wynnie!"  he  added,  looking 
back  in  the  doorway.  "  Thank  you  a  thousand  times. 
There's  no  comforter  like  a  sister  !  " 

"  And  a  pipe,"  I  said  ;  at  which  he  laughed,  and  was 
gone. 

When  Pcrcivale  and  I  reached  Lime  Court,  having 
followed  as  quickly  as  we  could,  there  was  Koger  sitting 
in  the  midst,  as  intent  on  her  words  as  if  she  had  been 
an  old  prophet,  and  Marion  speaking  with  all  the  compo- 
sure which  naturally  belonged  to  her. 

When  she  shook  hands  with  him  after  the  service,  a 
slight  flush  washed  the  white  of  her  face  with  a  delicate 
warmth,  —  nothing  more.  I  said  to  myself,  however,  as 
we  went  home,  and  afterwards  to  my  husband,  tliat  his 
case  was  not  a  desperate  one. 

"  But  what's  to  become  of  Blackstono  ?  "  said  Perci- 
vale. 

I  will  tell  my  reader  how  afterwards  he  seemed  to  me 
to  have  fared;  but  I  have  no  information  concerning  his 
supposed  connection  with  this  part  of  my  story.  I  can- 
not even  be  sure  that  he  ever  was  in  love  with  Marion. 
Troubled  he  certainly  was,  at  this  time  ;  and  Marion 
continued  so  for  a  while,  —  more  troubled,  I  tliink,  than 
the  necessity  she  felt  upon  her  with  regard  to  Roger 
will  quite  account  for.  If,  however,  she  had  to  make 
two  men  miserable  in  one  week,  that  might  well  cover 
the  case. 

Before  the  week  was  over,  my  husband  received  a  note 
from  Mr.  Blackstone,  informing  him  that  he  was  just 
about  to  start  for  a  few  weeks  on  the  Continent.  When 
he  returned  I  was  satisfied  from  his  appearance  that  a 
notable  change  had  passed  vipon  him :  a  certain  inde- 
scribable serenity  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  his 
whole  being ;  every  look  and  tone  indicated  a  mind  that 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  383 

knew  more  than  tongue  could  utter,  —  a  heart  that  had 
had  glimpses  into  a  region  of  content.  I  thought  of  the 
words,  *''  He  that  dwelleth  in  the  secret  place  of  the 
Most  High,"  and  my  heart  was  at  rest  about  him.  He 
had  fared,  I  thought,  as  the  child  who  has  had  a  hurt, 
hut  is  taken  up  in  his  mother's  arms  and  comforted. 
What  hurt  would  not  such  comforting  outweigh  to  the 
child  ?  And  who  but  he  that  has  had  the  worst  hurt 
man  can  receive,  and  the  best  comfort  God  can  give,  can 
tell  what  cither  is  ? 

I  was  present  the  first  time  he  met  Marion  after  his 
return.  She  was  a  little  embarrassed  :  he  showed  a 
tender  dignity,  a  respect  as  if  from  above,  like  what 
one  might  fancy  the  embodiment  of  the  love  of  a  wise 
angel  for  such  a  woman.  The  thought  of  comparing  tlie 
two  had  never  before  occurred  to  me  ;  but  now  for  the  mo- 
ment I  felt  as  if  Mr.  Blackstone  were  a  step  above  Marion. 
Plainly,  I  had  no  occasion  to  be  troubled  about  either  of 
them. 

On  the  supposition  that  Marion  had  refused  him,  I  ar- 
gued with  myself  that  it  could  not  have  been  on  the  ground 
that  she  was  unable  to  look  up  to  him.  And,  notwith- 
standing what  she  had  said  to  Roger,  I  was  satisfied 
that  any  one  she  felt  she  could  help  to  be  a  nobler  crea- 
ture;  must  have  a  greatly  better  chance  of  rousing  all 
the  woman  in  her;  than  one  whom  she  must  regard  as 
needing  no  aid  from  her.  All  her  life  had  been  spent  in 
serving  and  sheltering  human  beings  whose  condition 
she  regarded  with  hopeful  compassion :  could  she  now 
help  adding  Eoger  to  her  number  of  such  ?  and  if  she 
once  looked  upon  him  thus  tenderly,  was  it  not  at  least 
very  possible,  that,  in  some  softer  mood,  a  feeling  hither- 
to unknown  to  her  might  surprise  her  consciousness  with 
its  presence,  —  floating  to  the  surface  of  her  sea  from  its 
strange  depths,  and  leaning  towards  him  with  the  ont- 
etretched  arms  of  embrace  ? 

But  I  dared  not  think  what  might  become  of  Roger 
should  his  divine  resolves  fail,  —  should  the  frequent 
society  of  Marion  prove  insufiicicnt  for  the  solace  and 
quiet  of  his  heart.     I  had  heard  how  men  will  seek  to 


384  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

drown  sorrow  in  the  ruin  of  the  sorrowing  powei-,  —  will 
slay  themselves  that  they  may  cause  their  hurt  to  cease, 
and  Itremhled  for  1113'  hushand's  brother.  But  the  days 
went  on,  and  I  saw  no  sign  of  failure  or  change.  He 
was  steady  at  his  work,  and  came  to  see  us  as  constantly 
as  before  ;  never  missed  a  chance  of  meetiug  Marion  : 
and  at  every  treat  she  gave  her  friends,  whether  at  the 
house  of  which  I  have  already  spoken,  or  at  Lady  Ber- 
nard's countiy-place  in  the  neighborhood  of  London, 
whether  she  took  them  on  the  river,  or  had  some  one  to 
lecture  or  read  to  tliem,  Roger  was  always  at  hand  foi 
service  and  help.  Still,  I  was  uneasy ;  for  might  there 
not  come  a  collapse,  especially  if  some  new  event  were 
to  destroy  the  hope  which  he  still  cherished,  and  which  I 
feared  was  his  main  support  ?  Would  his  religion  then 
prove  of  a  quality  and  power  sufficient  to  keep  him  from 
drifting  away  with  the  receding  tide  of  his  hopes  and 
imaginations  ?  In  this  anxiety  perhaps  I  regarded  too 
exclusively  the  faith  of  Roger,  and  thought  too  little 
about  the  faith  of  God.  However  this  may  be,  I  could 
not  rest,  hut  thought  and  thought,  until  at  last  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  go  and  tell  Lady  Bernard  all  about  it. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

THE   DEA    EX. 

"  And  you  think  Marion  likes  him  ? "  asked  Lady 
l:5ernard,  wlien  she  had  in  silence  heard  my  story. 

"  I  am  sure  she  likes  him.  But  you  know  he  is  so  far 
inferior  to  her,  —  in  every  way." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  Questions  are  involved 
there  wliich  no  one  but  God  can  determine.  You  must 
remember  that  both  are  growing.  What  matter  if  any 
two  are  unequal  at  a  given  moment,  seeing  their  relative 
positions  may  be  reversed  twenty  times  in  a  thousand 
years?  Besides,  I  doubt  very  much  if  any  one  who 
brought  his  favors  with  him  would  have  the  least  chance 
with  Marion.  Poverty,  to  turn  into  wealth,  is  the  one 
irresistible  attraction  for  her ;  and,  however  duty  may 
compel  her  to  act,  my  impression  is  that  she  will  not 
escape  lovinff  Roger." 

I  need  not  say  I  was  gratified  to  find  Lady  Bernard's 
conclusion  from  Marion's  character  run  parallel  with  my 
own. 

"  But  what  can  come  of  it  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Why,  marriage,  I  hope." 

"  But  Marion  would  as  soon  think  of  falling  down  and 
worshipping  Baal  and  Ashtoreth  as  of  forsaking  her 
grandchildren." 

"Doubtless.  But  there  would  be  no  occasion  for  that. 
Where  two  things  are  both  of  God,  it  is  not  likely  they 
will  be  found  mutually  obstructive." 

"Roger  does  declare  himself  quite  ready  to  go  and 
live  amongst  her  friends,  and  do  his  best  to  help  her." 

"  That  is  all  as  it  should  be,  so  far  as  he  —  as  both  of 
them  are  concerned  J  but   there   are   contingencies;  and 

3ST 


386  TEE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

tte  question  naturally  arises,  How  would  that  do  in 
regard  of  their  children  ?  " 

"  If  I  could  imagine  Marion  consenting."  I  said,  "  I 
know  what  she  would  answer  to  that  question.  She 
would  say.  Why  should  her  children  be  better  off  than 
the  children  about  them?  She  would  say  that  the 
children  must  share  the  life  and  work  of  their  parents." 

''And  I  think  she  would  be  right,  though  the  obvi- 
ous rejoinder  would  be,  'You  may  waive  your  own 
social  privileges,  and  sacrifice  yourselves  to  the  good  of 
others  ;  but  have  you  a  right  to  sacrifice  your  children, 
and  heap  disadvantages  on  their  future  ? '  " 

"Now  give  us  the  answer  on  the  other  side,  seeing 
you  think  Marion  would  be  right  after  all." 

"  Marion's  answer  would,  I  think,  be,  that  their 
children  would  be  God's  children  ;  and  he  couldn't  desire 
better  for  them  than  to  be  born  in  lowly  conditions,  and 
trained  from  the  first  to  give  themselves  to  the  service 
of  their  fellows,  seeing  that  in  so  far  their  history 
would  resemble  that  of  his  own  Son,  our  Saviour.  In 
sacrificing  their  earthly  future,  as  men  would  call  it, 
their  parents  would  but  be  furthering  their  eternal 
good." 

"  That  would  be  enough  in  regard  of  such  objections. 
But  there  would  be  a  previous  one  on  Marion's  own  part. 
How  would  her  new  position  affect  her  ministrations  ?  " 

"There  can  be  no  doubt,  I  think,"  Lady  Bernard  re- 
plied, "  that  what  her  friends  would  lose  thereby  —  I 
mean,  what  amount  of  her  personal  ministrations  would 
be  turned  aside  from  them  by  the  necessities  of  her  new 
position  —  would  be  far  more  than  made  up  to  them  by 
the  presence  among  them  of  a  whole  well-ordered  and 
growing  famil}',  instead  of  a  single  woman  only.  But 
all  this  yet  leaves  something  for  her  more  personal  friends 
to  consider,  —  as  regards  their  duty  in  the  matter.  It 
naturally  sets  them  on  the  track  of  finding  out  what 
could  be  done  to  secure  for  the  children  of  such  parents 
the  possession  of  early  advantages  as  little  lower  than 
those  their  parents  had  as  may  be ;  for  the  breed  of 
good  people  ought,  as  much  as  possible,  to  be  kept  up. 


THE    VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  387 

I  will  turn  the  thing  over  in  my  mind,  and  let  you  know 
what  comes  of  it." 

The  result  of  Lady  Bernard's  cogitations  is,  in  so  far, 
to  be  seen  in  the  rapid  rise  of  a  block  of  houses  at  no 
great  distance  from  London,  on  the  North-western  Rail- 
way, planned  under  the  instructions  of  Marion  Clare. 
The  design  of  them  is  to  provide  accommodation  for  all 
Marion's  friends,  with  room  to  add  largely  to  their  num- 
ber. Lady  Bernard  has  also  secured  ground  sufScient 
for  great  extension  of  the  present  building,  should  it 
prove  desirable.  Each  family  is  to  have  the  same 
amount  of  accommodation  it  has  now,  only  far  better,  at 
the  same  rent  it  pays  now,  with  the  privilege  of  taking 
an  additional  room  or  rooms  at  a  much  lower  rate. 
Marion  has  undertaken  to  collect  the  rents,  and  believes 
that  she  will  thus  in  time  gain  an  additional  hold  of  the 
people  for  their  good,  although  the  plan  may  at  first  ex- 
pose her  to  misunderstanding.  From  thorough  calcula- 
tion she  is  satisfied  she  can  pay  Lady  Bernard  five  per 
cent  for  her  money,  lay  out  all  that  is  necessary  for 
keeping  the  property  in  thorough  repair,  and  accumulate 
a  fund  besides  to  be  spent  on  building  more  houses, 
should  her  expectations  of  these  be  answered.  The  re- 
moval of  so  many  will  also  make  a  little  room  for  the 
accommodation  of  the  multitudes  constantly  driven  from 
their  homes  by  the  wickedness  of  those,  who,  either  for 
the  sake  of  railways  or  fine  streets,  pull  down  crowded 
houses,  and  drive  into  other  courts  and  alleys  their  poor 
inhabitants,  to  double  the  wretchedness  already  there 
from  overcrowding. 

In  the  centre  of  the  building  is  a  house  for  herself, 
where  she  will  have  her  own  private  advantage  in  the 
inclusion  of  large  space  primarily  for  the  entertainment 
of  her  friends.  I  believe  Lady  Bernard  intends  to  give 
her  a  hint  that  a  married  couple  would,  in  her  opinion, 
be  far  more  useful  in  such  a  position  than  a  single 
woman.  But  although  I  rejoice  in  the  prospect  of 
greater  happiness  for  two  dear  friends,  I  must  in  honesty 
say  that  I  doubt  this. 

If  the  scheme  should  answer,  what  a  strange  reversion 


388  THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER. 

it  will  be  to  something  like  a  right  reading  of  the  feudal 
system ! 

Of  course  it  will  be  objected,  that,  should  it  succeed 
ever  so  well,  it  will  all  go  to  pieces  at  Marion's  death. 
To  this  the  answer  lies  in  the  hope  that  her  influence 
may  extend  laterally,  as  well  as  downwards ;  moving 
others  to  be  what  she  has  been ;  and,  in  the  conviction 
that  such  a  work  as  hers  can  never  be  lost,  for  the  world 
can  never  be  the  same  as  if  she  had  not  lived ;  while  in 
any  case  there  will  be  more  room  for  her  brothers  and 
sisters  who  are  now  being  crowded  out  of  the  world  by 
the  stronger  and  richer.  It  would  be  sufficient  answer, 
however,  that  the  work  is  worth  doing  for  its  own  sake 
and  its  immediate  result.  Surely  it  will  receive  a  well- 
done  from  the  Judge  of  us  all ;  and  while  his  idea  of 
right  remains  above  hers,  high  as  the  heavens  are  above 
the  earth,  his  approbation  will  be  all  that  either  Lady 
Bernard  or  Marion  will  seek. 

If  but  a  small  proportion  of  those  who  love  the  right 
and  have  means  to  spare  would,  like  Lady  Bernard,  use 
their  wealth  to  make  up  to  the  poor  for  the  wrongs  they 
receive  at  the  hands  of  the  rich,  — let  me  say,  to  defend 
the  Saviour  in  their  persons  from  the  tyranny  of  Mam- 
mon, how  many  of  the  poor  might  they  not  lead  with 
them  into  the  joy  of  their  Lord ! 

Should  the  plan  succeed,  I  say  once  more,  I  intend  to 
urge  on  Marion  the  duty  of  writing  a  history  of  its  rise 
and  progress  from  the  first  of  her  own  attempts.  Then 
there  would  at  least  remain  a  book  for  all  future  reform- 
ers and  philanthropists  to  study,  and  her  influence  might 
renew  itself  in  other  ages  after  she  was  gone. 

I  have  no  more  to  say  about  myself  or  my  people.  We 
live  in  hope  of  the  glory  of  God. 

Here  I  was  going  to  write,  the  end  ;  but  was  arrested 
by  the  following  conversation  between  two  of  my  chil- 
dren,—  Ernest,  eight,  and  Freddy,  fi.ve  years  of  age. 

Ernest.  —  I'd  do  it  for  mamma,  of  course. 

Fredd]).  —  Wouldn't  you  do  it  for  Harry  ? 

Ernest.  —  No :  Harry's  nobody. 

Freddy.  —  Yes,  he  is  somebody. 


THE   VICAR'S  DAUGHTER.  389 

Ernest.  —  You're  nobody ;  I'm  nobody ;  we  are  all  no- 
body, compared  to  mamma. 

Freddy  (stolidly).  — Yes,  I  am  somebody. 

Ernest.  —  You're  notbing;  I'm  notbing  ;  we  are  all 
nothing  in  mamma's  presence. 

Freddy.  —  Bvit,  Ernest,  every  thing  is  somebhing ;  so  I 
must  be  sometbing. 

Ernest.  —  Yes,  Fredd^'^,  but  you're  no  thing  ;  so  you're 
notbing.     You're  notbing  to  mamma. 

Freddy. — But  I'm  mamma's. 

THE   END. 


^^   OF  THE  "^  ^^ 


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